


The Rewriting History Affair

by Farisya



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, M/M, References to Attempted Rape, Starts in a prison, and references to beatings, don't forget the angst, hints to TV canon, picks up with movie canon, tagging for that torture scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farisya/pseuds/Farisya
Summary: In 1964, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin team up with the precocious Gabriela Teller and save the world.This is that story, with a twist. And a bit of shouting.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 28
Kudos: 136





	1. A Different Beginning

Napoleon rubbed his wrists as the guard removed the heavy cuffs. Another guard finished looping the long chains of his ankle restraints through two steel rings in the floor. He smiled widely. He’d been told over the years this particular twist of his lips made everyone within a twenty-foot radius want to shoot him in the face. That still held true, if the guards’ faces were anything to go by.

Thomas, as his uniform proclaimed, wrapped the chain from the wrist cuffs around his hand and punched Napoleon in the gut. Polkowski, also helpfully identified by his uniform, didn’t stop his partner, he simply glared at him and then hefted a chuckling Napoleon upright into the steel chair again.

“That will be all, gentleman.” Napoleon smiled at the anger hidden by the woman’s carefully cultivated accent.

The two guards shared a look. It wasn’t often a woman came to visit the prison. Never mind a woman who looked and sounded like her.

“With all due respect, ma’am—” Thomas began. The woman held up a hand to silence him.

“Let me stop you right there.” She turned a blinding smile on the guards, all six of them, as they stood between Napoleon Solo and every conceivable exit to freedom. She pitied them. “I may look and sound quite different than what you gentlemen are used to, but I assure you, Sergeant Solo poses no threat to me. Do you Sergeant Solo?”

It took everything in Napoleon not to say something sarcastic, especially when she used his long defunct Army rank to address him. Truth was, he wanted to know what this well-coiffed and well-spoken Englishwoman wanted, who she worked for. He let an easy smile slide across his face and caught the eye of the warden waiting on the other side of the steel gates.

“I’d never lay a hand on a lady. My mother would be appalled.”

Thomas and Polkowski, already his least favorite people in this hell hole, took up their flanking positions behind him and Napoleon settled into a relaxed study of the woman before him.

The guards watched in increasingly tense silence. The woman and their newest prisoner said nothing, preferring to size each other up with a series of carefully perfected facial expressions. The warden watched dispassionately. After the horrors he saw in the liberation of the concentration camps, running a prison of his own was simple. He kept the prisoners fed, watered, and full of reminders of Nazi atrocities that he didn’t rain down on them. He would rather his guards not hit a cooperating prisoner, but that was an issue for another time.

At this moment all his focus was on the people at the table. These two, this woman and his newest acquisition, were simply testing each other. Watching them, he made a quick assessment. Whatever this woman wanted from Napoleon Solo, she’d get it.

“Sergeant Solo, may I call you Napoleon?”

“Only my mother calls me that, but for a lovely woman such as yourself, I suppose I can make an exception.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m quite on par with your mother. So, I’ll call you Solo.”

“Suit yourself,” He grinned at her cheek and leaned back in his chair. “What shall I call you?”

“Apologies, I’m not usually so rude. My name is Elizabeth Lyttelton. You may call me Ms. Lyttelton.”

“Lyttelton? I wasn’t aware my crimes merited a visit from someone on the peerage lists.”

She laughed, completely unsurprised at his familiarity with British aristocracy, and slid a manila folder across the table. “They don’t, or wouldn’t if not for extenuating circumstances.”

Napoleon leaned forward and collected the file. He didn’t open it. She’d tell him everything he needed to know.

“You need a thief.”

“Not exactly, Solo, I’m here to offer you a better deal than the CIA.”

He slid the folder back to the center of the heavy steel table and leaned forward to sneer at her. The mention of the agency in front of the guards meant the whole prison would know he was a spy by dawn. He also didn’t like the reminder of Sanders’ attempts to manipulate him.

“I am no one’s lapdog, Ms. Lyttelton. Taking hold of my leash doesn’t mean you control me.”

“An assumption Mr. Sanders mistakenly made, I’m sure. Hence your transfer to the lovely state of Kansas in the middle of winter. I won’t sing my employer’s praises, Solo. Everything you need to know is in that file.”

“And why should I listen to you? Are you planning to be my friend or an enemy?”

“Friends, enemies,” She smiled widely and leaned forward. The guards around her twitched nervously as her hands nearly grazed Napoleon’s own. “No, Solo. We’ve not become _intimate_ enough to be friends or enemies. I also think you have an abundance of both, with quite a bit of overlap between the two groups. Consider me an,” She paused. “An ally.”

“Allies, huh,” Napoleon pulled the folder into his lap as he slid back into his chair. He liked this woman. She wasn’t afraid to push her luck with him. Most female agents tried to hide behind societal expectations. He glanced between the folder in his lap and the softly smiling Ms. Lyttelton. “I’ve never had one of those. It should be a nice change of pace.”

“I’m happy to oblige.” Elizabeth stood up and took a step around the table. “Please read that carefully, Solo. The warden knows how to contact me should you decide to accept our proposal.”

“I’d stand, but I think that would make my new caretakers nervous.” Napoleon deflected. Elizabeth Lyttelton smirked and proffered her hand.

“Indeed it would.” He reached out to press a genteel kiss to her knuckles. She pulled him in close and leaned over his ear. “A bit of advice, your cellmate has a bit of a reputation. You should tread lightly, Solo.”

She stepped away and made her way to the gate, two guards now on her back. Just as the door opened, she turned back to him and flashed a cheeky smile. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

Napoleon grinned back and shook his head slightly. “Oh, I’m sure you will, Ms. Lyttelton.”


	2. Bargains and Threats

The downward spiral for Napoleon, surprisingly, did not begin with his initial arrest by the task force in 1958. No, it began six months later when, facing ten years in a federal prison, he agreed to let Sanders hold his leash and use him as a spy.

In the five years since, he and Sanders clashed at every opportunity as Napoleon completed dozens of missions. He wasn’t bored, far from it. The assignments utilized every skill he honed through his years as an orphan on the New York City streets, the patience and violence earned through those desperate years made lethal by the Army, and his tours of Europe and Korea. Stealing art had been easy, too easy in the end. He got bored. He got caught.

Sanders and the CIA kept him entertained and infuriated him as they dangled their unattainable carrot of freedom and a suspended sentence before him. Finally, Napoleon lost his temper. Sanders appeared with yet another extraction in his Berlin apartment and made a snide remark about Napoleon’s side business, threatened to add the crimes onto his sentence. Napoleon blamed his reaction on a fit of pique. One could only endure the slimy grin of a man like Sanders for so long before snapping. Especially with the added stress of his current side project.

Three days later, a CIA jet landed in Kansas City and ten of the agency’s best officers hand delivered him to Fort Leavenworth to finish out his original ten years as well as another eight added on for attacking Sanders. Napoleon could safely say he’d arrived at rock bottom.

Or at least he thought so until Ms. Elizabeth Lyttelton delayed him and dropped a new deal in his lap.

A new deal and a strange bit of advice. His plans needed to change, _quickly._

The warden escorted him personally to his new cell, pausing only to chat with one prisoner or another. Napoleon knew stalling techniques. Interrogations were a specialty of his. Finally, as they rounded the corner to his cell block, the warden broke.

“You’ll be keeping that folder, Mr. Solo. Ms. Lyttelton and I have an agreement. But make no mistake, any infractions and that deal is gone. I served with men like you in Europe. Everything you saw human beings do to one another was worse than you imagined when they showed those propaganda pictures at home. So you decided to take a little for yourself, balance out the books in your favor.”

Napoleon studied the warden carefully, realizing he knew him. Major Stephen Norcross was a fair but strict officer that Napoleon avoided at all costs during his stint in the occupation of Berlin. Stealing art under the eyes of a man like that was difficult at best, impossible in most cases. Napoleon learned Japanese and got himself transferred to Tokyo within two years. A mistake as it turned out, because he ended up in Korea just as that war kicked off. The Purple Heart he earned alongside an Honorable Discharge went a long way to reducing his original sentence at trial.

“I don’t hold your crimes against you, Mr. Solo. But you will serve the remaining time for them. Here, with that jackass Sanders, or under the purview of Ms. Lyttelton’s organization. One step out of line and those other options disappear like so much smoke. You’ll stay here rotting away until your sentence is up. Are we understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Napoleon’s response was automatic. More than a decade later and he still responded to that particular tone of voice. He hated himself for it. Only a little though, the Major was a good man, better than most other officers he met. Napoleon’s men had certainly lived longer under Norcross’ command.

“Good. Now, I’d like to give you a bit of advice.”

“Seems everyone does today.” Napoleon muttered. Warden Norcross ignored him.

“Your cellmate hasn’t been here very long, only six months, and he’s already made a name for himself. If you want that offer to stand long enough for you to consider it properly, you’ll need to make a choice. Stay out of his way, make friends, or join him in his weekly tour of solitary. All up to you, Sergeant.”

The cell block door wrenched open and Napoleon found himself pushed forward by Thomas and Polkowski into the broken sunlight of his new home. He sighed and let them take him forward.

“Open door twenty-six!” Polkowski shouted to the far end of the block.

“Door twenty-six opening!”

Napoleon watched the steel bars slide left, mentally tallying up how much time it would take to disable the door from inside the cell. He estimated at least three minutes, conservatively.

“Prisoner step back.” Thomas demanded as Polkowski grabbed Napoleon’s arm.

The shadowy figure waiting inside the cell had several inches on Napoleon though he happily towered over most people. Even Thomas and Polkowski didn’t break six feet. The figure moved backwards away from a small chess set on the bed.

Thomas stepped back and motioned for Napoleon to enter the cell. He tightened his grip on his folder and the bedroll provided to him and stepped inside. He kept his eyes on the still-shadowed figure at the back of the cell as the door clattered shut behind him.

He took stock of the cell and the two bunks inside. The bottom bunk, obviously claimed by the chess set, was neatly made with corners that would make Napoleon’s old drill sergeant drool. He hefted his bedroll to the top bunk but kept the folder in his hand.

“What took you so long?” The figure asked quietly in Russian after Napoleon’s escorts left the cell block.

Napoleon sighed and unrolled the bedroll and sad excuse for a pillow and bed linens. “Is this how it’s going to be? I thought you’d be grateful.”

“You thought wrong.” The shadowy figure moved as Napoleon climbed up onto his bunk. “I had plan to escape. I told you this. Why did you not listen? You never listen.”

“I take it, since we’re having this conversation, that you’ve swept for bugs and no one is listening.”

“We are last cell in block, two are empty between us and other inmates. I check for bugs every time I return to cell.”

“And how exactly did you earn yourself a time out during the middle of the day, Peril?”

Illya Kuryakin’s broad shoulders hunched as he leaned against Napoleon’s bunk. He crossed his arms and practiced Napoleon’s best sheepish smile as he looked up at the newly imprisoned American.

“Prisoners talk. I hear a new prisoner is coming, that he will be in my cell. Was not hard to pick fight and have yard privileges revoked.”

The grin that split Napoleon’s face was half-genuine, half-swoon. “All for me? I’m flattered.”

“Do not take it to heart, Cowboy. Your ego is large enough.”

The sound of inmates returning from the yard and work duty echoed in the halls and Illya reluctantly pulled away from Napoleon. His hand trailed lightly down Napoleon’s dangling calf unwilling to let go after so many months apart. They shared a look and Illya wordlessly sank down onto his bunk to resume his chess game. Napoleon rolled onto his back and cracked open the thick folder Elizabeth Lyttelton provided him. They both tried desperately to ignore the other’s presence.


	3. Conspiring Uncles

Elizabeth Lyttelton lounged in her suite at the Elms Hotel. The bugs she had the warden and his men place around the Castle to monitor Solo were proving useless. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Solo served with distinction, despite his hedonistic and criminal predilections, earning himself several character witnesses at his original trial for theft. She was even sure that Solo had only slept with two of the fifteen men who showed up to support him from his old unit. The women who showed up were an entirely different story.

As a thief, he’d been masterful, only getting caught because he got bored and took on more reckless jobs. In 1958, he crossed the Finnish border into Russia and made off with one of the State Museum’s prized Ilya Repin masterpieces.

It was only the intervention of the CIA and an international task force from four countries that allowed Napoleon to escape the clutches of an irate KGB. He managed to place the blame for the Repin theft on the shoulders of another thief and the painting was happily recovered. She thought he would go for something a bit flashier, but the minor thefts he committed afterwards indicated a new appreciation for the artist. It, like his capture, was curious. He knew the task force was after him but seemed insistent on escaping the KGB.

Elizabeth knew something was different after Russia. Napoleon was a master forger as well as a thief. It took the task force, already on his trail, six months to catch up with him after he appeared on the Finnish border. Plenty of time to recreate a masterpiece and claim to return the original. Plenty of time to encounter the KGB’s brand of justice and decide to plan his own capture.

Now, two months into his sentence at Leavenworth, Elizabeth knew he had another scheme brewing.

Napoleon Solo did not know how to toe the line, delighting in crossing whatever boundaries hemmed him in, yet he appeared to be a model prisoner. He only clashed with his cellmate during the first few weeks of his confinement. Neither of them got into it enough to warrant anything more than a verbal warning.

Something was going on, especially with the cellmate’s already lengthy record, though she couldn’t decide what.

The phone rang and she calmly reached over to lift the receiver to her ear.

“Darling Elizabeth, how is your stay in middle America? Are you enjoying the snow?”

Alexander Waverly’s voice carried over the line with cool aplomb.

“Uncle Alex! It’s so good to hear from you. The weather is positively atrocious. I don’t know why I was sent here. It seems our dealer has other plans."

“Is that so?”

“He’s not considered my offer at all.”

“Well that is unfortunate. Is there any way we could nudge things our way?”

Elizabeth considered her options. The only idea she had wasn’t a particularly good one. “Perhaps. I’ll need to make another visit. It’s risky. I know you wanted to keep our competition in the dark.”

“Things are changing quickly my dear. We need this acquisition to go through as quickly as possible.”

“Understood, Uncle. I’ll need every bit of information you have on our dealer’s new friend.”

There was a significant pause. “Is that wise?”

“Certainly not.” Waverly chuckled wryly at her bravery, foolish though it may be.

“You’ll have what you need at breakfast tomorrow. Good afternoon, my dear."


	4. Point/Counterpoint

Elizabeth looked up at the man towering over her. He easily carried at least twenty pounds and four inches on Solo. He was also, rather distractingly, handsome. The cold assessing look in his eyes as he studied her set every one of her meticulously honed senses alight.

“Have a seat Mr. Zubkhov.”

The Russian giant, an alleged spy picked up by the CIA in West Berlin and secreted away here in maximum security, folded himself gracefully onto the heavy steel chair. He said nothing as his shackles were firmly attached to the table and floor.

He watched her face carefully, cataloguing every one of her expressions as the guards handled him roughly. She did not like these men and let her displeasure show clearly to the warden waiting just outside the room.

“Why am I here? You should know gulag is much worse than this,” He paused on a dangerous smile, _“playground._ Does MI-6 wish to offer me a deal to ease my suffering?”

She couldn’t help the disgusted scoff that escaped her lips. “Nothing so pedestrian, Mr. Zubkhov. I am here for information on your cellmate.”

Suddenly, she was the sole focus of his attention. It unnerved her. She very nearly attributed his reaction to prison politics, no one appreciated a rat. Then she caught the uncontrollable twitching of his hands and knew she’d been right to come.

“Solo is nothing more than thief. What does British Intelligence want from him?”

Elizabeth considered her words carefully. “His skills.”

It was his turn to scoff. “He would make terrible spy.”

“Are you in any place to judge, Mr. Zubkhov? You were caught, ahem, red handed crossing the wall in Berlin.”

The slow, crocodile smile that passed his lips threw her off center. He was winning this contest of wills.

“I was caught, yes. You should ask why.”

“Why?” She bit back immediately. It wasn’t often other spies set her on edge. This man was not what he seemed on paper. The CIA didn’t know who they had.

“Perhaps I made mistake, became distracted.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I sincerely doubt that, Mr. Zubkhov.”

“Well,” He leaned over the table. His tall frame easily crossing the distance and prompting the guards to collectively step forward. “Perhaps I am lying. If I am to give you Solo, I want same deal he was offered.”

“He let you read the folder?”

“No, I took it. Is good offer. He is considering it.”

“Solo told you this?”

“Of course not,” He chuckled. “I spend much time with him in these walls. He is easy to read.”

Elizabeth leaned forward to enter his space. “We both know that isn’t true, Mr. Zubkhov. Solo is a con man of the highest caliber. He managed to forge his own birth certificate and earn his way to a full Sergeant’s rank in the Army all before the age of eighteen. He even kept himself so far under the radar with his criminal activities that it took ten years for anyone to realize the extent of his thieving. You know nothing of him if you think he would be a terrible spy.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper and switched to Russian as anger bloomed on his face. She filed that away for later, intrigued that the Russian seemed angry on Solo’s behalf. “On the other hand, _you_ were caught blatantly flouting an international boundary of your country’s own making. Since then however, you are correct, you’ve proven to be much more than an average KGB man. As a result, I don’t believe you are Anatoly Zubkhov from St. Petersburg.”

Zubkhov reared back and visibly contained the urge to snap his chains. She finally had him. The guards took another step forward, but she threw the warden a look over her shoulder and he waved them away. Satisfied they’d leave her be for now, she stood and walked around the table. Propping her hands on the edge, she leaned into the Russian’s face, careful to lower her voice to the barest whisper. She didn’t want the CIA overhearing this next bit.

“And, considering that he is still alive and uninjured after living with you for nearly three months, I’d say you know Solo quite well, _intimately_ even. Sanders is watching you both. He may not know that you two are acquaintances, but he certainly hopes you will end up killing each other. Tell Solo what I said. Let him know that the two of you have a benefactor, a favorite Uncle if you will. You have your deal. I look forward to working with you Mr. Zubkhov.”

Zubkhov, or whatever his name truly was, leaned the last few inches between them to press his lips near her ear.

“Oleg Kusnetsov. If you mean to help, you will find him. Tell him I have patience and time.”

The guards pulled him away and one of them, the redheaded Thomas, shoved Elizabeth to the side harshly. Zubkhov’s chair was unceremoniously flipped backwards and a rifle butt buried in his gut. Warden Norcross pulled her to her feet and dragged her out of the interview room. The guards subdued Zubkhov, with an unhealthy amount of enthusiasm considering he wasn’t fighting them and pulled him to his feet as Norcross kept Elizabeth behind him. Once the guards rounded the corner with the listless man, he rounded on her.

“You were told the rules, Ms. Lyttelton. No close contact with the prisoners. He could have torn your throat out with his teeth. Don’t make that face at me, I’ve seen men do worse in these walls.”

She studied the man pacing in front of her. They were alone in the hall. Every listening device the CIA had was inside the interview room.

“You’ve disobeyed a direct order from your superiors and the CIA to let me talk to Solo and Zubkhov, Major Norcross. Why?”

“Men like Solo are not honest men, but they are good men. We only made it to Berlin and liberated those camps because of men like him.”

Lyttelton nodded. She understood that loyalty. “And you don’t trust the CIA?”

Norcross shook his head. “It’s more Adrian Sanders I don’t trust. That man was a snake the few times I met him during the war, and you don’t forget a man like that, or what he’s capable of. Putting Solo in danger by throwing him in with Zubkhov proves that. The only reason Solo is alive is because Zubkhov is toying with him. Sanders wants Solo dead. Now,” He turned on her. “What did he say to you? Why risk a beating to touch you?”

She smiled at him. “He didn’t say anything to me. Nothing that made sense anyway.”

“You’re lying.”

“Of course I am,” She smiled. “That does not mean I am not also telling the truth.”

She collected her bag and coat and let the warden escort her back to the entrance.

“Warden,” She paused at the doorway, fixing her coat. “Keep a close eye on them, will you?”


	5. Sometimes the Truth Is Stranger

The guards carelessly tossed Illya back into his cell after a token trip to the infirmary. It was minutes before lights out and Napoleon was restlessly pretending to read on his bunk. He knew Lyttelton requested to see his cellmate. Knew the British agent wanted information on him. Prison and the halls of a Junior High School were the absolute worst places in the world to keep secrets. News of the British woman’s visit spread within minutes of her arrival. Napoleon feared the worst every moment he was gone and looking at him now, he knew they’d gotten lucky.

When Illya’s normally imposing form collapsed onto the floor, Napoleon forced himself to wait until the guards were well away from the cell before jumping down to help. The two spies had a cover to maintain as enemies forced into close quarters. The other imprisoned former soldiers on their block knew very little of their backgrounds, except that Illya was most certainly a captured spy. Napoleon pretended to be antagonistic towards Illya but resigned to suffer in his company.

Now though, as Napoleon gently maneuvered Illya onto his bed, he forgot the whole reason they maintained this image. He settled himself in behind the giant Russian, making the small bunk tiny with their combined size.

He ran a hand gently over the badly bandaged cut next to Illya’s left eye. That one would leave a scar. Napoleon briefly inspected the rest of the Russian’s injuries, confirming that the bruises on Illya’s ribs matched a size ten boot that probably belonged to Polkowski. Luckily, none of Peril’s ribs appeared broken so their plans could continue without delay. Bruises would do little to slow Illya down after a good night’s rest.

As Napoleon’s hands ran absentmindedly through Illya’s hair, the Russian spy stirred and turned his head on a groan. The massive bear paws Peril dared to call hands lifted off the thin mattress to grab at Napoleon. Within seconds, Illya managed to push and prod Napoleon into laying on his side between Illya and the wall. Two pairs of blue eyes stared at each other in the moonlight streaming in from the cell block windows.

“Are you alright?” Napoleon finally whispered in Japanese. He didn’t want to risk anyone listening in, someone was always awake on the cell block, despite the silence.

Illya sighed and dropped his head against Napoleon’s chest. “Sore, my head hurts.”

“What did she want?”

“Information, on you. She knows I am not Anatoly Zubkhov. She knows about us. Offered me same deal as yours.”

“Do you believe her?”

“She told me we had favorite Uncle on the outside. I told her to find Oleg.”

Napoleon nodded and drew Illya into a loose embrace. “I’ll tell the warden to contact her. Not for a few days though. You need to play up this beating. Let everyone know you wouldn’t rat me out.”

“They will wonder why.” Illya said, pulling back to look at Napoleon.

The slow smile that crossed his face was answer enough.

“That is not a good idea, Cowboy.”

“Why not?”

Illya didn’t have a ready answer. Five years of this, whatever they were to one another, with Napoleon and he was still surprised by the man. Constantly annoyed and frequently infuriated by the thief, Illya felt proud knowing he could so easily slip behind the many masks he wore. Still, though, his Cowboy surprised him.

“See, you have no good reasons not to do it. Sanders thinks you’re going to kill me. I say we surprise him.”

“I do not like this.”

Something in Illya’s tone must have given him away because Napoleon’s eyes bored into his and a hand came up to cradle his jaw.

“We can fake it. I don’t particularly like the idea of fucking you in a prison either. I’d much rather have you at that little inn we found in Dresden last year.”

Illya sighed at the memory, leaning into Napoleon again. “I still do not like this. Other prisoners could take this as invitation. Is not good idea.”

“You make a good point. It certainly isn’t a good idea while you’re still injured. I might come up with a better plan in the next few days. Who knows, Ms. Lyttelton might even do something interesting which will make our plan unnecessary.”

“You are optimist, Cowboy.”

“I certainly am not.” Napoleon hissed. “But you bring out the worst in me, Peril.”

The Russian chuckled and let Napoleon kiss him lightly before dozing off.

He woke the next morning to find Warden Norcross staring down at him, two guards flanking him, and Napoleon nowhere in sight. He slowly rolled to a sitting position, taking extra care to wrap one arm across his chest. Napoleon was right, he noted as the guards sneered down at him, feigning more serious injury would work in their favor.

“Good morning, Mr. Zubkhov. How are you feeling?”

“Have you ever crashed motorcycle, sir?”

“Once, during the war.” The warden paused to give him a once over. “I’ll have the infirmary send you something for the pain. You understand why you were _disciplined?”_

Illya nodded, not missing the barely disguised disgust in Norcross’ voice. It was obvious the warden did not approve of his guards’ methods. “I broke the rules with Ms. Lyttelton.”

“That you did. She’s a forgiving young woman, though. I’m told to tell you that she will send a message to your cousin Oleg if you consider her offer. Considering who she works for, Mr. Zubkhov, I’d say you should take that offer.”

“I do not trust a pretty face. I will not give information on Solo.” Illya growled. He could hear the faint footsteps of the other prisoners outside the cells and knew that he’d been heard.

“Ms. Lyttelton told me you’d say that. I’m to tell you that the best warriors have time and patience. She can wait you out.”

“It will make no difference.”

The warden nodded and strode out of the cell. Illya listened as they obviously ran into Napoleon, resisting the urge to stand in the doorway.

“You are a remarkable man, Mr. Solo.” Norcross barked out angrily.

“Sir?”

“Your cellmate refused a deal to inform on you.”

“Did he now? Interesting.”

“It is interesting, Mr. Solo. I’ll be keeping a close personal eye on you both now.”

Napoleon appeared in the doorway a moment later carrying a tray from the canteen. Illya accepted the food and was surprised to see two of the other prisoners appear soon after. One held a crumpled set of compression bandages and the other a battered copy of _Crime and Punishment._ Napoleon laughed at the irony and Illya realized what the warden had done.

The message from Lyttelton was loud and clear. Oleg told her the significance of his words and what to say in return. This _Uncle_ she spoke of could prove useful to his and Napoleon’s plans. Loudly complaining to Napoleon about Illya’s loyalty meant that the other prisoners would stop treating him like the Russian spy he was. He belonged to them now. Supposedly taking a beating instead of ratting on his cellmate was priceless prison currency, even in the Cold War.__

_ _

_ _If Sanders had informants other than the guards, then the warden just ensured they would hear no more. To this moment he was a Russian spy, only alive inside these walls because of his skill in a fight. Now, he was an equal._ _

_ _

_ _This would make things much easier._ _


	6. Impressions

The holiday season buried Kansas under several feet of thick, soft snow. Napoleon sat in the prison library; a copy of _A Christmas Carol_ cradled in his hands. Dickens was his least favorite English author, he much preferred the witticisms of Austen, but he always made an exception for Ebenezer Scrooge.

Another prisoner from his cell block was watching him from across the room. Unfortunately, Thomas and Polkowski were on duty in the hall. The only other guard was engrossed in the sports section of his newspaper with several shelves between him and the two prisoners.  
Napoleon sighed heavily as the man stood and slowly made his way over. The other prisoner, former Second Lieutenant Daniel Styles if he remembered correctly, plopped himself into the chair opposite and pulled Napoleon’s book from his hands.

“My mother read this to me once. Who writes a ghost story for Christmas?” The man asked, Boston heavy in his voice.

“Charles Dickens was an exceedingly morbid man who loved writing commentaries on the social injustices of Victorian England.”

The other man frowned and glanced between Napoleon and the book. “You some kind of professor? I thought you were a thief, Sarge.”

“No, I’m not a professor. But I am a thief. I assume you need something stolen.”

The younger man smiled widely and with his blue eyes and the red tint to his blond hair, Napoleon suddenly realized exactly what was happening. After Illya’s beating, the two men had been nearly inseparable. Apparently, without even faking a prison relationship, they’d managed to convey a certain level of, Napoleon was loath to use the word, _intimacy._

“Nah, Sarge. Just figured you might like a change of scenery is all. Didn’t see your Russian sidekick around and nothing beats a friendly face in here.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, but otherwise kept his face blank. “Zubkhov isn’t exactly friendly.”

“I noticed.” Styles muttered. Napoleon ignored him.

“But, he did take a beating for me. So, it seemed the right thing to keep the guards off his back.”

“So, uh,” a hand ran through that strawberry blond hair and Napoleon refused to follow the gesture. “You two haven’t reached an agreement?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Napoleon made sure to plaster his most confused expression on his face. He heard the library doors open behind him and knew that Illya was in the room. They’d agreed to meet here and discuss their escape plan after dinner.

Styles face, a study in subtle seduction, fell immediately when he saw Illya. He managed a quick goodbye and walked as nonchalantly as he could manage for the doors. Illya glared at him and took his spot across from Napoleon.

“What did he want?” Illya whispered furiously in Russian. Napoleon was quite sure his partner was unaware he’d spoken in his mother tongue.

“I seemed to have earned a slight reputation as a _friendly_ person.”

Illya’s jaw creaked as he clenched his teeth. If they were in the relative privacy of their cell, Napoleon would slide a hand around the back of his neck and lay the other across Illya’s chest. As they intended to finish planning their escape right under the guards’ noses, he could do neither of those things. He settled on tapping Illya’s foot with his own until the Russian spy relaxed and some of the tension bled from his shoulders.

“We have done nothing to earn this _reputation.”_

“No, but you haven’t killed me and you took a beating for me, Peril. Some of them are going to wonder why. I told you we might have to use this.”

“And I said I did not like it.”

“Maximum Security Military Prison.” Napoleon enunciated every word clearly, then repeated them in Russian. He leaned across the table and shoved his book at Illya. “This place is one small step and a tyrannical warden away from where your father ended up in Siberia, Illya. Forgive me, but I don’t like the idea of spending one moment more than necessary in this place. If that means we play with others’ perceptions, then I will happily get on my knees right now.”

Napoleon barely controlled himself at the heat in Illya’s glare. They’d been apart for months, and even now, when they shared such a tiny cell, only a few stolen touches had passed between them. It sat heavy on his heart, and wasn’t that a surprise, that he couldn’t even hug Illya without risking everything. He wanted this Russian beast. Desperately.


	7. An Alternative

Alexander Waverly watched Solo and Kuryakin impassively. They were bruised and battered head to toe, still wearing the clothes they’d stolen two weeks prior. He expected them to fidget, yet they sat relaxed on the sofa in Lyttelton’s suite. Each held a glass of scotch loosely in their hands.

A month earlier, Waverly arrived to the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth to oversee the manhunt for these two men. It took them six months and minimal assistance from both Lyttelton and Oleg Kusnetsov in the KGB, but Solo and Kuryakin managed to escape a maximum-security prison with little more than a few stolen paperclips, a flat cap, and luck. Warden Norcross was still begrudgingly impressed.

Movement on his right reminded Waverly why he was here and he glanced at Oleg. The senior KGB operative had agreed, after much negotiation with Waverly and his superiors, to loan Kuryakin to the fledgling U.N.C.L.E.

Solo was another story entirely. Waverly could not understand why he didn’t use his considerable talents to escape Sanders and his vindictive attempt to tighten the thief’s leash after his, frankly, overdue fit of temper in Berlin. Instead he allowed Sanders to put him in the one place where a man like Solo would end up dead: a maximum-security cell with a known Russian spy.

It took Waverly, with reports from Lyttelton about Solo’s behavior in Leavenworth, nearly three months to put the pieces together. When he did, he couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him in the lonely darkness of his London home.

Five years and no one realized what the two spies were doing. Five years and two of the world’s most formidable intelligence agencies failed to see that their top agents were not only _fraternizing_ at least once a month, they were also planning a dual defection from their respective masters. Waverly was absolutely certain Oleg had no idea he’d been manipulated.

“Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo, I’d like to congratulate you on your escape from prison.” Kuryakin nodded, his eyes firmly set on the expressionless Oleg, while Solo preened. “I’m happy to report that your bodies have been recovered floating in the Missouri River outside of Columbia. You had a shootout with the local authorities and drove your car off a bridge. You are officially dead men.”

The two spies glanced at each other wearing matching half-smiles. Oleg cleared his throat and Kuryakin’s attention landed firmly back on his superior officer. Waverly only caught Solo’s brief look of disappointment because he was waiting for it. He glanced back at Kuryakin’s face to see the unflinching loyalty of a soldier directed at his commanding officer. Solo never had such loyalty, except perhaps to Kuryakin. Breaking the Russian’s ties with his homeland might be more difficult than he hoped.

“You are not dead to your country, _Tovarisch.”_

Both Waverly and Solo’s eyes immediately jumped to Kuryakin’s hands as his fingers twitched. Solo, ever the con man, slid forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Waverly recognized the gesture. He was readying himself for a fight. He raised an eyebrow at Lyttelton, sitting to Solo’s left. She smiled. Perhaps Kuryakin’s loyalty was not so steadfastly focused on his home. If a man like Solo was willing to fight for him, well. Waverly cleared his throat.

“Unfortunately, gentleman, he is right. Both the CIA and the KGB are aware of your continued existence. Luckily for you, I am here to offer you both an opportunity. I head a new organization, the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

“Uncle,” Kuryakin muttered. Both he and Solo glanced at Ms. Lyttelton who smirked.

“Precisely,” Waverly smiled. “U.N.C.L.E. will transcend national and ideological boundaries to combat threats against world peace. We exist to keep the balance by stopping those individuals and organizations that would tip the balance of power.”

“You weren’t planning on recruiting Kuryakin.” Napoleon interrupted. “Not until Lyttelton figured out who he was.”

“No, we were not. However, Mr. Kuryakin’s record speaks for itself. Once we knew the two of you were working together, well, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.”

The two spies shifted slightly, speaking to each other in the silent way that Waverly only saw in the most seasoned of partnerships.

“That said, both of you now have the option to join U.N.C.L.E. and use every one of your rather impressive skills to avert global disaster.”

“What are my orders?” Kuryakin asked Oleg.

“You are officially reassigned to U.N.C.L.E. effective immediately.”

“And if he refuses?” Solo interjected.

Oleg turned surprised eyes onto the American. “He will return to Moscow for,” The man paused searching for the right word. _“Evaluation.”_

Solo nodded and took a long drink of scotch. Kuryakin kept his eyes on Oleg. Waverly waited for the other shoe to drop.

“I accept.”

“Excellent. Now, Mr. Solo, I’ve been reliably informed that Adrian Sanders would love nothing more than to shoot you himself. However, I firmly believe that you could do an immense amount of good for the world if you came to work with us.”

“You already know my answer.” Solo challenged.

“Yes, well, your _partnership_ with Mr. Kuryakin aside, Solo, I make an effort to accept volunteers.” He let his eyes wander to Kuryakin, “Even reluctant ones. U.N.C.L.E. is not in the habit of forcing loyalty from its operatives.”

Solo sat in silence, studying Waverly. Though he’d spent nearly thirty years in the company of dangerous men and women, the former Naval Intelligence Officer could safely say this was one of the few times he felt truly intimidated.

Napoleon Solo was every inch the gentleman thief and con man, a master of manipulation. It was so very simple to forget that he was also the man who grew up practically homeless on the streets of Brooklyn and joined a war to escape that life. A man who, despite his youth and criminal activity, was promoted quickly and led his men with distinction through the end of one war and the beginning of another.

The heavy gaze of Illya Kuryakin, with his litany of psychological issues and even more dangerous skillset, only added to the tension building between Waverly’s shoulders. Oleg narrowed his eyes as both men stared Waverly down.

“I’ll give you one shot, Waverly. One.”

“I’m sure it will be the only one I need. Now, Ms. Lyttelton took the liberty of arranging clothing for you. Then you’ll both be heading to Berlin. I’ve an agent you need to recover from over the wall.”

Waverly ignored Oleg’s snarl.


	8. All We Can Do Is Try

Napoleon jolted awake and dragged himself from his bed. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire. He stumbled to the kitchen and desperately filled a glass with cool water. His hands shook so badly he dropped it before he could even lift it to his lips.

Hands appeared at his hips and arms, lifting him away from the shattered glass. He often forgot how strong Illya was until confronted with it. The shaking continued as he was deposited on his sofa and Illya cleaned up the mess. When a fresh glass appeared in his vision, he allowed the Russian to hold it as he took sips.

Finally settled, he pulled Illya down into his lap. The contrast in their sizes and body shapes never failed to make him smile. He’d never met another human being who affected him the way Illya did. Despite their frequent arguments and polar opposite, well, everything, they managed to maintain whatever this was between them. Napoleon never felt the need to even attempt such a thing before Illya chased him across the Finnish border five years ago.

“Better now?” The blond giant asked against Napoleon’s temple. The taller man was perched over Napoleon’s lap, straddling him, hands resting on the back of the sofa. Napoleon hoped it could support their weight.

“Not really.” Napoleon admitted quietly into the crook of Illya’s neck.

“What was it this time?”

Napoleon didn’t answer immediately, sweeping his hands up Illya’s back and back to his waist. His body was reacting to his lover’s proximity, weight, everything. He pulled the taller man down against his burgeoning erection and smirked slightly at the exasperated huff against his neck. They stayed silent, gently shifting against each other, not seeking anything but comfort.

“Warsaw.” Napoleon finally whispered.

“I shot you in Warsaw.”

“I know. I also know you spent six months in recovery after I dropped you in the river.”

Illya pulled back to look at him. His hands rose up to cradle Napoleon’s face. “You did what you had to do.”

“I know. I’d do it again.”  


“This,” Illya whispered as stared Napoleon in the eye, “Is how I know when you lie to me. You never look me in the eye unless you lie.”

Later, he would think about that statement. In the meantime, Napoleon wanted to chase away the memories of blood and bruises and dead sadistic prison guards. He surged forward, twisting Illya to pin him against the sofa with his body. The Russian turned his head at the last second, denying Napoleon his kiss.

He didn’t mind. Illya loved to punish him by forbidding him the simplest pleasures. He knew exactly what to give Napoleon, what to refuse him, to get the truth out of the consummate liar. Napoleon used every trick he could think of to force Illya to repent and failed. It wasn’t often Illya let his stubbornness override his own fierce desire. When he did, Napoleon usually paid a steep price.

Love bites bloomed across Illya’s bare chest as Napoleon tried desperately to stave off the coming argument. Illya writhed under the ministrations of Napoleon’s hands and lips, but he didn’t let out more than a gasp of pleasure. Every time Napoleon sought eye contact, his lips, any of the intimacy his Russian partner freely gave any other time, the thief found himself denied.

“Five years ago, you stood on the other side of a border checkpoint and smiled at me, my favorite painting rolled under your arm. I wanted to kill you for your, for your insolence. For beating me.” Illya gasped out as Napoleon stroked his cock through his cotton pajamas. Napoleon ignored him and set about easing the pajamas down Illya’s hips.

“A year later I had my chance. You sat in a small café in Sarajevo, completely unaware of me, flirting with your waitress. Then you turned your head and lowered your obnoxious sunglasses to look directly at me. I nearly dropped my rifle in surprise. I was KGB’s best agent and you knew I was there, three hundred yards away, concealed on balcony, and you winked at me.”

“I didn’t know it was you. Not until you appeared again that night. Sanders was furious when he realized the KGB found out about that little mission. It was strictly off the books. He expected me to die going after Sebastien. You popping up in that alley actually saved my life.”

“I know. I almost intervened. The Frenchman fought dirty.”

Napoleon smiled. “Yes, well, I learned to fight in dirtier alleys than that one. He never stood a chance.”

“You do not talk about your life before the army.”

“No,” Napoleon clenched his jaw. “There isn’t much I learned in those years I want to share.”

Illya nodded. “This is fine. I know,” The large man cleared his throat and then pinned Napoleon with a hard stare. The American closed his eyes to hide from the intensity in that gaze. “I know what it is to push all of your old life away. But,” He pressed his lips gently to Napoleon’s and immediately pulled away. “Everything we have done together, to each other, we will not lie about this. I want—”

He trailed off and pressed his whole body down against Napoleon. “I want _this._ I want you. All of you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon breathed hard and opened his eyes to find Illya looking at him with something he’d never seen in another person. At least not a person looking at him.

“It was Thomas.” Napoleon whispered, closing his eyes again. He couldn’t do this with Illya watching him.

“You dreamed of night before we escaped.”

“I had a _nightmare_ about that night, yes.” Illya let the snappy tone go, he knew when to pick his battles with Napoleon. “I dreamt the son of a bitch had you on your knees and I couldn’t get to you in time.”

“I was fine.”

“No you were not. That piece of shit was going to,” Napoleon stopped abruptly and pushed Illya off his lap. Illya barely managed to land on the couch as his lover rocketed off the sofa and began pacing the room, pulling hard at his curls.

Illya desperately wanted to pull Napoleon back into the safety of his arms. But he didn’t, couldn’t, Napoleon needed to get this off his chest.

“I know what men like that are capable of and if I’d been a second too late. If I hadn’t been there.” He crumpled to the floor and Illya slid down to sit next to him. “I saved you from him, from what he was about to do, but I can’t stop seeing it.”

“Thomas was a bad man.”

“Understatement of the century, Peril.” Napoleon muttered. He slumped over and laid his head in Illya’s lap.

“I know what men like him can do.” Illya said a moment later, so softly Napoleon wasn’t sure he heard it. “Before Oleg recruited me, there were men who tried to use me. I know what would have happened if you did not get there. But you did. You may not always get to me in time, Cowboy.”

“But I’ll always try.”

“So will I.”


	9. Idioten

Napoleon sauntered into the little chop shop in Berlin completely aware of the bugs in his suitcase. Illya’s imposing figure across the street at Checkpoint Charlie did little to distract him from the guard placing them beneath his clothes. He lost all his tails but Illya some thirty minutes ago. The KGB had to keep up appearances after all, so they’d failed to alert the Stasi that this operation was sanctioned.

The girl who rolled herself out from under the heavily modified car in front of him was nothing like Waverly described. This slip of a thing was crusted over in grease and still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. If he wasn’t so thoroughly entranced by another spy, he might have made a play for her at her first judgmental glance. Of course, then fate had to throw a wrench in the works. She opened her mouth and proved to be Illya’s type: mouthy, dark haired, and beautiful. Yes, he did know that his lover had a type. Something kept the blond giant coming back to _Napoleon_ for all these years after all.

“You look important, or at least your suit does.”

“Well, I can get you over the Wall. Would you consider that important, Fraulein Schmidt?”

“A smart mouth to go with the suit.” He had to grin at her. Great minds think alike and all that. “Statements like that can get you in a lot of trouble around here.”

“Or they can get you out of it. Your Uncle Alex sent me.”

Illya snuck through one of the open garage bays and appeared at his shoulder.

“Time to go, Cowboy.”

The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of him and the snarl she didn’t bother to conceal at hearing his accent made Napoleon sigh.

“He’s KGB.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Waverly would not send KGB for me.”

Illya tapped at his father’s watch as he disposed of the bugs in Napoleon’s case. The two men shared a look over the girl’s head. She glared at them both.

“Who are you?”

“There is no time for this.” Illya snarled. Napoleon groaned.

Gabriela Teller, junior agent-in-training to U.N.C.L.E. roared, actually roared, as she was slung over Illya’s shoulder and then nearly thrown into her own car. Napoleon was already folded in the back seat, pistol and silencer in his hands.

“Drive.” The Russian commanded.

“Normally.” Napoleon added from his hidden position in the back seat.

At the sight of the Stasi agents filtering in from the shadows, Ms. Teller obliged them. She pulled out carefully and smoothly, taking Napoleon’s directions and only glaring at Illya when he clenched his gun too tightly.

It took some impressive maneuvering and a brief chase where Illya had to play dead and Napoleon popped up to shoot at an unsuspecting Stasi officer, but they reached the apartment building overlooking the Wall.

Illya provided cover fire as Napoleon shuffled Ms. Teller into the building. Once the three were on the roof, Napoleon signaled to Ms. Lyttelton and shoved Gaby down as the harpoon sailed over her head. The crackling sound of a radio and the pounding of fists and bullets on the barricaded steel roof hatch alerted the three spies to their exposed position.

“You first, Cowboy.”

“The last time you said that, Peril, I had to fish you out of a dumpster in Kansas City.”

“Not my fault you cared more for your stolen suit than your life.”

“It was a _Zegna._ I still haven’t forgiven you.”

“Can this wait?” Gaby gritted out.

Spotlights flooded their position and Napoleon hauled himself and the exceedingly unhappy Ms. Teller into the waiting harness. He heard shouts as they touched into the truck and he shot the harness back across the line as soon as he was out of it. Illya didn’t bother strapping into it, he simply grabbed onto it and faced backwards to fire at the Stasi agents flooding the roof.

As soon as he cleared the Wall, Napoleon shouted at Ms. Lyttelton to disengage the harpoon and caught his partner before the line went slack. He hauled the Russian inside and gave him a once over. Too many bullets went flying for all of them to miss Illya. The groan Illya tried to hide as he put weight on his left leg, told Napoleon he was right to worry.

“Sit, Peril.”

“I am fine.”

“Liar. Ms. Lyttelton, could you radio ahead and ask for some horse tranquilizers? I think my partner here is going to be difficult.”

Illya snarled at Napoleon as he raised an eyebrow to his injured partner. Gaby watched the exchange with interest. She’d been ready to abandon the two idiots on the roof before she caught sight of Elizabeth in the truck across the Wall. It was only then she believed that Waverly sent them to retrieve her. She hoped they would disappear.

Gaby listened to the two agents bicker at each other all the way back to the safe house. Elizabeth beckoned her to a back bedroom in the spacious flat and silently laid out fresh clothes and a gun for her. Gaby liked Elizabeth. She and Waverly were the ones to recruit her two years ago and the other woman never treated Gaby as anything other than her equal. They’d become fast friends.

“So, darling, what did you think of our new recruits?”

_“Idioten,_ the both of them.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I know, but they get the job done so spectacularly, don’t you think?”

“No. They have no, ugh, what is the word?”

“Subtlety.”

_“Ja!_ They are horrible spies.”

The sound of the two men arguing, loudly, in what sounded like Chinese, echoed through the flat. Their voices were accompanied by a series of thumps and slamming doors. Then they went silent. The women shared a look and Gaby set about field stripping the Walther PPK Elizabeth set out for her. The two women chattered quietly with one another, catching up on each other’s lives.

Gaby’s eyebrows shot sky high several minutes later when a loud moan filtered through the quiet flat. Elizabeth snorted and collapsed in silent giggles when another followed it soon after. She laughed harder at the incredulous look on Gaby’s face.

“They are…together?” Gaby breathed out.

“Yes. I’ve not worked out exactly how long yet, but it’s certainly been years.” Gaby decided she must look thoroughly confused because Elizabeth snorted indelicately and dissolved into giggles again. “They are very much our own Cold War Romeo and Juliet, but without the unnecessary suicide.”

Gaby considered this as the sound of a low, chuckle and rhythmic thumping joined the moans. “I suppose we’ll still have the childish behavior and general…”

She cut off as a particularly loud grunt and Russian cursing came through the door.

“I think the word you’re looking for is mayhem, darling.”

The German nodded her agreement.


	10. Doubt

Illya woke alone in the bed. Napoleon stood before the window, blatantly daring any sniper to take a shot at him. He held his tongue, though. After their adventure crossing the Wall the night before, he knew Napoleon. Knew the recklessness Napoleon cloaked himself in when he was worried.

“Good morning, Peril.”

The Russian didn’t answer him. Instead he ran a foot over the bandage covering his calf. The bullet tore a small hole out of the muscle but was a nuisance nothing more. Napoleon stalked over from the window and yanked the blankets back to reveal the blood spotting the gauze.

“You’ve opened it up again.”

“I think that was from last night, Cowboy.” Illya managed a smug smile as Napoleon gingerly sat down on the bed. They tore into each other as soon as Illya begrudgingly accepted the painkillers left for them by an absent U.N.C.L.E. physician. He knew the women at the other end of the flat heard them, they stopped caring about remaining silent once Napoleon shoved Illya to the ground and rode him into submission. Rounds two and three had been no less gentle. Illya could feel the soreness building alongside his lingering bruises from their escape. He squirmed slightly under Napoleon’s hands earning a dark look from his partner.

“Yes, well, we were celibate for six months and you know how I get after a successful extraction. I won’t be blamed for my actions on this on, Peril.”

Illya didn’t respond. His leg hurt a little bit now he was awake and Napoleon had unwrapped the tight dressing. He was right though, there was no fresh blood in the wound. It was crusted over and the gauze stuck when Napoleon tried to pull it away.

“Alright, Illya, up. I need better light for this.”

Napoleon hauled him to his feet and helped him hop to the en suite, which was much too small for two men of their size. He sat on the toilet lid and busied himself with removing the old gauze and accepting the bottle of saline to flush the wound. It was about five centimeters across, but it cut through his calf muscle and he was lucky it hadn’t snapped any of his tendons. The antibiotics Elizabeth injected and the flushing ensured it wasn’t inflamed, and with some careful packing, it would heal quickly.

Dropping new dressings into Illya’s lap, Napoleon situated himself on the edge of the claw foot tub and pulled Illya’s leg over. He gripped Illya’s foot tightly and rotated it, then made him bend his knee. They shared a look and Illya resisted the urge to lean forward and kiss his lover. He knew how much it bothered Napoleon to have attachments to people. With the life he’d led, the one they led as spies, sentiment was a liability at best. At worst, Illya knew, it was lethal.

They sat in silence as Napoleon redressed the wound. Illya didn’t want to bring attention to Napoleon’s fragile emotions and Napoleon didn’t want to acknowledge that Illya could read him like a book.

A quiet knock on the bedroom door made them both twitch towards the weapons they’d each hidden in the bathroom the night before. Then they heard Gaby calling a quiet, “Hello.”

“In here.” Napoleon clipped out.

The diminutive woman appeared in the doorway, a medical bag in her hands. “Elizabeth checked in with Waverly earlier. He had the doctor send along more supplies.”

Both men studied her for a moment and she took their silence as an invitation to come into the room and watch Napoleon work. Illya knew he made every wrong impression on the girl the night before. He was used to being too big, too frightening. This girl made him nervous, if he was honest with himself.

Gabriela Teller was a study in contradictions. At once the self-assured garage mechanic and then the fearful orphan. An agent with several dangerous undercover missions under her belt but a naïve young woman who balked at the attentions of men. She wore her confidence and her savage tongue the same way Napoleon wore his suits and charm.

It clicked then as he watched the two of them work together to finish bandaging his leg. Napoleon was gently explaining the different methods for field dressing a wound, Gaby asking questions about different types of injuries and the necessary first aid required to keep an agent or an asset moving. It was obvious to him now as he listened to them banter.

She set him on edge because she reminded him of Napoleon.

“Something on your mind, Peril?”

Illya snapped his eyes away from the soft brown, calculating gaze of Gaby to rest on mischievous blue. He managed a smirk as Napoleon glanced between him and Gaby, a small frown crinkling the corner of his mouth and eyes. His lover was jealous. Jealous of a woman who was so much like himself.

“I am wondering what we needed to retrieve Ms. Teller for.”

Gaby huffed. Napoleon narrowed his eyes. The girl was annoyed with him again. His lover knew he was lying. Another knock prevented either of them from questioning him and Elizabeth Lyttelton appeared, smirking, at the doorway.

“So glad to see you three getting along. Waverly has insisted we adjust our timetable. We will be leaving tomorrow for Milan. Gaby, if you’ll come with me, we’ll take a quick shopping trip. Is there anything you boys might want?”

Illya glanced at Napoleon.

“I didn’t get a chance to check the kitchen last night.” The American stated simply. “If you ladies take your time, I’ll put a list together for dinner tonight.”

Elizabeth chirped out a happy acknowledgement and dragged Gaby from the bathroom. Napoleon found that he liked Ms. Lyttelton the more he spent time with her, she was the epitome of British stoicism wrapped in the guise of a flighty socialite. He looked forward to seeing her in the field.

Miss Gaby was still a bit of a mystery. She responded to him with a kind of annoyed acceptance of his entire being. He recognized so much of himself in her. Every time Illya’s eyes lingered on her, he couldn’t help the brief stab of jealousy that suffused him.

Each time he reminded himself that he and Peril had been chasing each other for five years.

Five years of bullets and blood and death between them.

Five years of this connection between them. Both dragging the chains of their childhoods behind them like Dickensian ghosts, rattling against the onslaught of the world.

The girl had none of that weight on her shoulders yet, young and inexperienced as she was. She certainly carried the burden of her painful past. But the life of a spy was an entirely different story. None of the agents he knew came from stable, well-loved homes. Gaby carried her abandonment with the same rage and smart mouth he did. Wrapped it in her own brand of gruff charm and blinked those doe eyes at anyone who thought to look beneath the surface. But she still radiated the innocence of youth.

He was uncomfortably reminded of himself.

Uncomfortably reminded, again, that Illya had a type.


	11. Idioten, Part 2

Gaby watched the two men banter back and forth about her wardrobe. Waverly’s insane plan to pass her off as Illya’s fiancée to her Uncle Rudi made her tense. She knew every rumor about the Vinciguerra couple. They put her suitably on edge.

Uncle Rudi, though, was a cold-hearted snake. Her mother loved her brother, but the war changed him. The quiet boy of her mother’s youth who equally watched over his younger sister and taught her the best way to demean a bully with words alone became someone else. Something else. A monster.

The shy child who included his little sister in all his experiments, the boy who grew into a shy doctor, blossomed under the cruel regime of the Nazis. He pulled his little sister’s husband into the party, convinced him to build bombs for his country. All the while, Rudolph von Trusch put Mengele to shame with his disgusting experiments on his fellow human beings.

Gaby knew all of this because her mother told her to never, ever go to her Uncle Rudi for help. To never accept his help. Udo Teller, her mother said, was a good man that Rudi used to advance his own career with the Nazis. Her brother was a psychopath. Three days later, her father was missing, and Uncle Rudi stood in her kitchen telling her how much her mother loved her. He took her and left her with Herr Schmidt and Gaby counted herself lucky, even though Schmidt died just after the war. She grew up on the wrong side of the Wall, but on the right side to keep her away from a monster like Rudi.

Rudi’s association with the Vinciguerras only meant one thing. They were monsters too. Gaby’s experience hiding from the worst kinds of people as an orphan in post-war East Berlin, from her uncle meant she could waltz right under their noses with barely a flicker of fear. Only cautious enough to keep her senses sharp around such predators.

Today, Napoleon and Illya were trying to make sure she had the clothes to fit in, to make herself a tantalizing treat. She would no longer hide.

“It won’t match.” She heard Napoleon spit out incredulously.

“It. Doesn’t. Have. To. Match.” Illya responded slowly. The salesgirls beat a hasty retreat after Illya revealed their cover story. Napoleon had to cajole her back inside with promises that Illya would be nothing but a gentleman and that he needed to appear single to seduce Victoria Vinciguerra. He also reminded her that they needed a valid excuse to explain her sudden appearance on the other side of the Wall. Appearing in Rome with an American fiancée would ruin their chances.

Gaby pulled a red dress and accessories off the rack as the boys argued and suddenly a salesgirl appeared again, ready to lead her to the dressing room. She listened to them bicker, wondering how they managed to keep their relationship secret for so long, as she dressed.

She pulled the sunglasses on and set out to show off the outfit. Napoleon’s jaw ticked as she walked out. A quick glance at Illya’s smug expression made her open her mouth.

“This dress costs more than my car.” She quipped.

Illya turned a smirk on Napoleon who managed to look singularly unimpressed. “You can get off your horse now, Cowboy.”

Napoleon muttered something under his breath at Illya, whose sneer softened to a somber look, and then turned to Gaby.

“I’ll see you in Rome. Try not to kill him, will you?”

Gaby lifted an eyebrow. “I make no promises, Mr. Deveny.”

He graced her with a half-smile and a quick peck on the cheek. “Peril, a moment.”

She accepted another outfit from one of the salesgirls and watched the two men duck into the back of the store. Shaking her head, she made her way back into the dressing room convinced the two idiots would cause her more problems than they were worth on this mission.


	12. Control

Illya watched Napoleon on his periphery as he first stole an invitation from a bemused Waverly and then charmed Victoria Vinciguerra. He would never admit it, but he loved watching Napoleon work. It was always a masterpiece of manipulation. Even the most paranoid of targets, such as Vinciguerra, were inexorably drawn in by the charm. They didn’t trust him, never, but none of them ever truly suspected him.

He tuned back into Gaby and Rudi’s conversation and found the fascist was insulting him. His fingers twitched and Gaby chided her Uncle. Suddenly he couldn’t remain within three feet of Gaby. He didn’t want to scare her any further. Their journey down from Milan, learning their backstory and each other over the course of the last ten days, had been fraught enough. They argued spectacularly several times, earning askance looks from the general public, over everything from him carrying her bags to the obnoxious size of her fake engagement ring.

Truthfully it had been ten days of hell. Illya was still on edge from his whirlwind recruitment into U.N.C.L.E. and Gaby’s complete inability to back down pushed him nearly to breaking. Losing his watch put him in an even worse mood. Napoleon swore he’d get it back for him, but Illya felt utterly naked without it’s comforting weight on his wrist. Gaby didn’t understand, she’d already lost every totem belonging to her parents.

Now, listening to her Uncle spout out his foul rhetoric and unable to do anything about it set his fingers to twitching. Napoleon caught his eye across the room as he flirted with Victoria Vinciguerra and Illya nearly cracked a tooth clenching his jaw. They both seduced marks for the job, felt no jealousy over something simple as breathing for them. But, seeing the blonde woman’s open interest, seeing Napoleon risk losing her attention to check on him—

The Russian pushed his way into the men’s room, happy Napoleon hadn’t witnessed his loss of control. Finding the young men there, behaving like the worst capitalist pigs, broke the fragile hold he managed to wrangle on his way over. He locked the door and let the rage take over.


	13. The Vinciguerra Affair

Napoleon pushed his way past Gaby as she opened the door. “Where’s Peril?”

“He’s been in there half an hour.” Gaby said as she gestured at the en suite door. She knew something was wrong. Illya rushed her out of the party much too early and his knuckles were bruised.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time in bathrooms recently. Apparently, you put someone called Count Lippi in a hospital.”

They both looked expectantly at the door and were rewarded with silence. Gaby turned the page of her newspaper as Napoleon leaned against the doorframe, determined to wait the Russian out.

“He had soft bones.” Illya’s head popped out. “And don’t question my methods.”

“What’s he done?” Gaby.

“Super-Agent here had some fun with three Italian boys in the men’s room.” He snapped. Gaby raised her eyebrows and Illya’s head popped out of the bathroom.

“They had it coming.” The door snapped shut.

“You need to control your temper.” Gaby chided. Both men glared at her and she wilted a bit.

“Your new boyfriend is a Nazi. Look at this,” He produced a sheaf of freshly developed photos that Napoleon snatched away. “I used film treated to reveal radiation.”

Napoleon studied the photos carefully, noting the presence of radiation on the Vinciguerras and Rudi. “Right, we’ll have to make a visit to the factory, Peril.”

* * *

They crouched next to the fence and Napoleon rolled his eyes as Illya pulled out a laser. The scuffle over the locks ended up with Napoleon staring at Illya’s crotch and he smirked up at the man, already breaking his concentration as his next gizmo utterly failed to beat Napoleon’s skill at lock picking. He finally shoved Illya over and they slid through the door just as the guards rounded the corner.

“Loving your work, Peril.”

A quick check of the ground floor proved useless, right up until Illya took off after a guard. Napoleon saw the rage building under his partner’s skin, knew he was riding the edge of an episode. He’d been on the receiving end of one three years ago, it was a memory they both liked to forget.

The release of tension in the bathroom as he broke the bodies of the three young Italians, much to Waverly’s consternation, was obviously not enough to break the stranglehold of Illya’s rage. Napoleon set his jaw and followed, watched as Illya performed the Kiss, and smiled beatifically at him as he found the hidden entrance to the vault. He really needed to find the guy who took Illya’s watch.

The alarm caught him off guard.

“Loving your work, Cowboy.”

Napoleon frowned as they did a cursory search to confirm what their eyes told them. The fond annoyance in Illya’s tone, the imminent threat of violence, and his own adrenaline promised that the two would both make the other pay for the snide comments.

Several minutes later, as they circled around the wet dock again, Napoleon clapped Illya on the shoulder and hauled him out of the captain’s chair. They were bruised, wet, and about to die, so Napoleon tied the wheel into position, threw the throttle wide open, and shoved his partner out of the boat. He didn’t count on Illya hitting his head on the way down or how heavy the Russian would be once he became dead weight.

Napoleon dragged Illya into the back of a truck and quickly searched the cab for anything useful. He grudgingly set the picnic basket aside as their getaway boat exploded in front of him, grabbing for the blanket instead. Returning to Illya, he stripped the Russian’s shirt off and wrung water out of it, covering him with the blanket.

Illya groaned and spat up a bit of water a moment later and Napoleon released a heavy breath. “I thought you were down for the count, Peril.”

“Not,” He coughed. “Not yet, Cowboy. Warn me next time. I promise not to hit head on boat.”

The sound of guards running by and a radio crackling stopped Napoleon’s witty retort. The hurried Italian was incomprehensible to Illya. Whatever it was set Napoleon immediately on edge and he shoved Illya’s wet shirt back over his head.

“Time to go,” He whispered over his shoulder once the coast was clear. “They’ve called the Vinciguerra estate. Victoria is on her way to the hotel.”

They took off running towards the car park where Napoleon stole a laughably small Vespa. Illya nearly protested riding on the back until a wave of dizziness hit him.

“Don’t knock us over, Cowboy. I’ve seen you drive.”

Napoleon huffed out a laugh and set off into the night, pushing the scooter’s engine hard. They arrived alongside Victoria and her men, racing up the stairs as she demanded a key to Mr. Deveny’s room. Illya slammed the door behind him as the elevator dinged. He stared at Napoleon, starting to panic slightly. Footsteps stopped outside the door and Napoleon shoved him into the bathroom, stripping him along the way.

Illya tripped over his trouser legs as Napoleon pulled off his own shirt and kicked the shower on. He yanked Illya over and dunked their heads under the spray, rewetting their hair. A key turned in the lock and Napoleon pulled his pants off and tossed on a dressing gown. He pulled out a toothbrush working up a lather quickly, gestured for Illya to be quiet, and stepped into the room.

“Hello, Victoria. Can I help you?”

“That remains to be seen, Mr. Deveny.”

“I, um, I’m not sure what prompted this visit, Victoria.” Napoleon glanced nervously at the bathroom, playing up his expression so Victoria would feel compelled to look. “But I don’t think it’s wise for you to be here.”

Illya quietly pulled on another dressing gown and then, checking Victoria’s placement in the room and catching Napoleon’s eye, he knocked the shampoo bottle into the tub. Napoleon’s face fell immediately, and he sighed heavily.

“Who is in there, Napoleon?” Victoria asked. When he didn’t reply, she took a step further into the room, her men blocking the doorway completely. Illya pinched red spots onto his neck and tousled his hair. “Come out now.”

As he stepped into the room, Napoleon’s shoulders dropped and he huffed, irritated. “This is entirely unnecessary, Victoria.”

“Mr. Andreyivich,” Victoria muttered. Napoleon barely contained a smirk at the disbelief on her face. She recovered quickly, eyes lingering on the rapidly forming bruises on Illya’s neck. “I am surprised to see you here.”

Illya bent, refusing to make eye contact, and retrieved his shirt. “I should leave.”

Napoleon said nothing as the Russian exited the room swiftly, his pile of clothes clutched protectively in front of him. He risked a glance over his shoulder, ignoring the sneering men still trying to block his path, to see Victoria shutting the door. He dashed upstairs to his and Gaby’s room, throwing his pile of wet things in a corner as he cleared the threshold.

Gaby stood over him as he frantically tore the room apart. “What’s going on?”  
“Where’s my case?”

He pulled it out and used his scanner to find the right signal. Napoleon never checked his shoes.

“You’ve bugged him?” Gaby asked. “Why? You’re partners.”

He shushed her, listening to Napoleon deftly convince the woman that he was simply sating an urge. As she brought up Gaby’s relationship and her own affiliation with Rudi, he heard Napoleon argue he found Illya wandering the streets looking for the man who stole his watch. His tone implied Illya was searching for something far more illicit than a stolen timepiece.

Victoria seemed to accept it. Illya and Gaby listened to her pace closer to where Napoleon kept his shoes at the end of his bed. Where Illya knew Napoleon was now sitting, artfully draped to seduce this woman. He’d seen Napoleon at work. The heavy fruit bowl moved and he heard clothes rustling.

“Grape?” Victoria purred.

Illya breathed in relief when she moaned a moment later.

Gaby stared at him from her position on the sofa, incredulous. “How can you stand it?”

“It means nothing.”

“Nothing.” Gaby mimicked. “Is this how the two of you stayed alive all these years? You let things mean nothing?”

He turned to look at the diminutive woman. “Yes.”

She stood and made for the full bottle of vodka on the bar. It wasn’t one of the good brands, none of those were truly available on this side of the Wall, but it would do. “Does it get easier, feeling nothing?”

Illya glanced up to see her holding a glass out towards him. He waved her off and she shrugged, downing both in one go. He let her settle down on the sofa next to him and stick her cold toes under his thigh. “Illya?”

“Mmm?”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“It,” He breathed out slowly as the tremors shot through his hands. “It does not.”

Gaby nodded and leaned back against the sofa arm. They sat in silence, punctuated only by the distant rhythmic thumping and occasional moan which filtered in from above. Gaby pretended not to see his hands shake and he pretended her presence didn’t comfort him.

He didn’t lie to himself. Seduction was not something they held against each other. It was knowing they sometimes must lay with the truly monstrous which set his teeth on edge and made him want to burst into Napoleon’s room. Beautiful monsters like Victoria, they made his blood boil. They reminded him of all the officers, so sharp in their uniforms, that defiled his mother. Reminded him of how Stalin gilded the lily of the broken Soviet Union to hide the blood and misery in his parents’ beloved Ukraine.

The lights shook as something landed heavily above. Gaby huffed and stopped him from switching on the receiver again. She hauled him to his feet and left him only long enough to flip on the record player.

“Dance with me.” She commanded.

“No.” He made to pull away only to find her twisting around him.

“Dance with me.”

Something of the fire in her eyes spoke to him. He normally only saw such determination in a set of blue eyes. Illya let her sway them to the music, let her distract him from the increasingly loud moans upstairs. He let her draw him down for a simple kiss to his forehead when he twitched at the noise. Let her shove him to the floor and into a wrestling match when his eyes drifted upwards again.

The fight was short and left several broken pieces of furniture, but by the time he corralled Gaby in the bedroom and laid her gently into her bed, the noises above had stopped. Gaby snuffled into her pillow, exhausted from the fight. She caught him off guard, distracted him. She’d make a wonderful agent someday.

He returned to the broken sitting room and switched on the receiver. The room above was quite silent now, only the faint sound of someone breathing told Illya his partner was alive and likely uninjured. He listened for a long time, righting the furniture he and Gaby overturned. As he reset his chessboard the sound of bedclothes rustling made him freeze. He heard heavy footsteps through the receiver and the ceiling and sighed.

Early into their relationship, Illya memorized the sound of Napoleon’s footsteps. Memorized the sound of American swagger muted by expensive Italian leather shoes or carpeted floors. Napoleon hardly ever woke from his nightmares screaming. But Illya could always tell when one occurred just by the sound of Napoleon walking.

“Illya,” He shut his eyes in relief. “She suspects us, suspects Gaby. We need to adjust our plans.”

Silently, Illya stood and crossed to the unbroken side bar and poured himself a whiskey. Napoleon sounded awful, wrung out and tired, but his voice held none of the self-disgust Illya feared after an encounter with Victoria Vinciguerra. Illya desperately wished he could return to Napoleon’s room, but if he was right then Victoria would have both rooms under surveillance and he needed to stay where he was.

“I know you’re listening.” Napoleon’s voice filtered quietly through the receiver. “I wish.”

Napoleon stopped himself and Illya nearly sobbed. They both wished many things, but they were tied too deeply to this world of spy craft and deception. Lying to themselves, wishing for something different, would get them killed. Illya shut the receiver off and headed for the too small bed across from a wakened Gaby. Her eyes held no pity for him, and he let her crawl into his bed, let her position him until his head pillowed on her stomach. He fell asleep to her stroking his hair and her steady heartbeat.


	14. A New Plan

Gaby woke slowly the next morning to find Illya still wrapped around her. She tapped him on the shoulder gently, very aware of how men like Illya reacted to waking suddenly. He snuffled against her belly before letting her up. She swept his hair off his forehead and pressed a kiss to his temple.

Everything in her rebelled against caring for the two men who carried her over the Wall. Something about them spoke to her though. They were just as broken as her, yet they found a way to carve out their own way, a way to be happy together. If she believed Liz, Solo even bet against the CIA to get Illya out of prison. Not to mention the way Illya looked at Solo spoke to the merciless way he would destroy anyone or anything that hurt the American.

Illya frowned at her as she studied him still. She smiled down at him and clucked her tongue. “Go back to sleep.”

He rolled his eyes, and his body, away from her. She collected her things and headed for the bathroom. Between her hangover and her confusion, today would be a long day.

Illya waited for Gaby to start the shower and pulled himself out of bed. He fell into a series of punishing pushups which pushed away much of his lingering discomfort from the night before. Just as he began working up a proper sweat, someone knocked on the door. He froze midway through another one-handed pushup and frowned. Too early for room service or a wake-up call.

The knock sounded again, and he sighed recognizing the pattern. One day Napoleon’s insistent use of his nickname would bite them in the ass, even if it was rapped out in Morse code on a door. Pulling on his dressing gown, he opened the door to find Napoleon waiting in the hall.

“Good morning, how did you sleep?”

The small smirk on Napoleon’s face didn’t distract Illya from the shadows under his eyes. “Better than you, I think.”

He refused to react to the man at the end of the hall watching them. Napoleon however decided to double down on the display from last night. He ran a hand slowly down Illya’s front, loosening the sash of his dressing gown and revealing his bare chest to the cool air. Illya closed his eyes in frustration, a look he knew their audience would misinterpret, and grabbed Napoleon’s wrist. “Not here.”

Napoleon entwined their fingers and stepped into Illya’s space, dropping something into his pocket. “I understand. Your darling fiancée wouldn’t take kindly to knowing your tastes.”

Illya swayed into him and ducked his head to whisper in Napoleon’s ear. “She suspects something.”

Nodding, Napoleon pulled Illya close. “I know. She still wants to meet again this afternoon. Tell Gaby to meet me in the lobby. I need her to invite me for a private lunch in your rooms.”

“Go,” Illya pushed him away suddenly. “Before she sees you.”

In another life, Napoleon could have graced the stage or screen with the way he frowned dramatically. Their audience ducked out of sight and Illya stepped back into his room, shutting it firmly behind him. Even the months in prison before Napoleon’s plan to rescue him didn’t make him feel half as lonely as this mission. All these years they spent stealing time and it was their first mission together which made him feel so far away from Napoleon.

“Who was that?” Gaby asked from the bedroom door. The towel she wore left little to his imagination and if she were anyone else, he would think it blatant seduction.

“Solo, he needs you to invite him up. Victoria has her people watching us.”

She nodded, pulling her bra into place before stepping into a slip. Considering their hostility only days ago, he couldn’t fathom how she trusted him enough to bare herself so readily. “Should I play the jealous or oblivious fiancée?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a carefully broken bug. The note attached made it clear Victoria left it behind in Napoleon’s rooms. “Not jealous,” He decided. Victoria and Rudi were suspicious of them and with Gaby’s competent display at the track he thought a different tactic necessary. “Let your uncle think you entered into the engagement to get over the Wall. Let them both think you’re only with me for what I offer you.”

Gaby turned and wordlessly asked for him to zip her dress. “Go out, buy me a new ring. I will bring Napoleon here.”

Illya watched the wheels turn behind her eyes. He didn’t know Waverly well, but he suspected Gaby would one day have the man’s job. She was a natural operative, but much like her engines, it was obvious she preferred to see the whole problem and work methodically towards a solution. He turned towards the en suite, finally confident in Gaby’s skills and a little in awe of her.

* * *

“Is this seat taken?” Gaby asked.

Napoleon looked up, feigning surprise at seeing the fiancée of his supposed lover. “Not at all.”

He stood to pull out her chair and let the quiet turn awkward for the benefit of the two men across the restaurant. “I saw you at the track. We were not properly introduced.”

“Jack Deveny,” Napoleon said around a smile. “You were on the arm of the Russian architect I believe. Though your accent tells me you’re German.”

“Well-spotted Mr. Deveny,” Gaby held out her hand and shook Napoleon’s when he went to press a genteel kiss. She pulled him over the table. “I saw you with my fiancée this morning.”

Napoleon caught on quickly and pried his hand away. “I’m not sure what you mean, Miss.”

“Teller. Gabriela Teller.”

“Miss Teller, I found your fiancée wandering the streets last night in search of some ruffians who stole his watch. I believe they also took your engagement ring,” He added with a significant look to her left hand. “We recognized each other from the Vinciguerra event and I decided to accompany him on his search.”

“A search which returned him to our room freshly showered and with a love bite on his neck.”

Napoleon cleared his throat and glanced around before leaning in, “What do you want?”

Gaby smiled meanly and Napoleon blinked. Elizabeth warned him before they left Berlin not to underestimate Miss Teller. He wondered if Illya had seen this side of her yet. She leaned forward and stole a cigarette from his open case. He lit it for her and managed to keep the pride in her performance off his face. Instead he aimed for a hunted look and, if the behavior of Vinciguerra’s men was any indicator, they were waiting for her to attack him.

“Come up and have lunch with us.”

“What?”

“You’re my fiancé’s new friend. I want to know you. Dear Illya, is so private in his friendships. I would rather know the men my husband chooses to,” She paused to take a drag on her cigarette. Napoleon felt her eyes linger judgmentally on him and knew the look held far too much truth. Gaby and Illya started this mission contentiously, but whatever she saw in him last night obviously changed things. “Trust, Mr. Deveny.”

“You think this is about trust?” He scoffed, clenching his fist underneath the tablecloth.

“Of course it is,” She snapped back. “Illya is very selective in his friends. If he didn’t want to trust you, Mr. Deveny, then he would have come straight back to me last night. Now, will you join us for lunch or not?”

“I think I will.”

“A wise choice, Mr. Deveny.”

* * *

Three hours later, Gaby lounged on the sofa as Napoleon and Illya bickered. Victoria’s men followed them both around the city until Illya returned with a new ring for Gaby. They retreated for lunch and waited until the men left the hotel before Elizabeth called in to relay Waverly’s orders. Neither Illya nor Napoleon agreed with Waverly’s plan to have Gaby meet with Rudi alone.

She left them to their petty squabbles and took up a place on the balcony. The sound of the city below and the spies inside comforted her. In less than three weeks she’d gone from slogging away as a mechanic, hoping Waverly could extract her, to confronting the man who haunted her childhood. Only Illya’s solid presence beside her and Napoleon’s confidence gave her the ability to stand before Rudolph von Trusch and lie.

“Gaby,” Napoleon called. She turned and found him shutting the balcony doors on a perturbed Illya. “Are you alright?”

“No.”

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me why?” His tone told her he didn’t believe she would. But he was trying anyway. Like last night, she felt the impulse to trust these two men. To trust them with her nightmares as they trusted each other. If they were strong enough to carry each other, surely they could carry her too.

“I was never sure,” She started. Napoleon tensed in surprise and then relaxed carefully. She appreciated the effort. “My adoptive father was a friend of my mother. She sent him a letter just before she died asking him to find me if anything happened to my parents.”

“You think Rudi happened to them.”

“My mother hated her brother and my father,” She stopped and took a long drink from her glass of scotch. “My father only joined the Nazis because Rudi told him it would keep me safe.”

Napoleon processed everything she wasn’t saying. “If we arrange a meeting with Rudi, can you handle it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why tell me this?”

“Instead of Illya, you mean?” He nodded. “Because he would insist on going with me. If this is to work, we need to let them think he is merely a tool for me to escape over the Wall. You need to meet with Victoria again. He will not want to choose between us.”

Napoleon huffed and followed her eyes to look out over the city. Rome bustled below them, taunting them with its eternal beauty. Every city hid the darkness of humanity though, if you knew where to look. Napoleon caught the hastily covered bullet holes in several buildings and clenched his teeth to forget his stint in the Army.

“Arrange a meeting with Rudi, see if he’ll invite Alexander. The little bastard was quite taken with you. I’ll meet with Victoria. Illya will follow you.”

“They still suspect us.”

“I have a plan for that.”

Gaby’s head snapped to look at him. He frowned. He knew he didn’t quite have control over his tone at the moment, but he thought he hid it better. “Illya won’t like this will he?”

“No, and that is precisely why we won’t be telling him.”


	15. Pain and Fear

Illya cursed Gaby and Napoleon both as he ran from the dogs.

A bullet tore into a tree ahead of him and he feinted right to avoid the men gaining on him. The van Elizabeth provided him was close, all he had to do was make it there.

He couldn’t afford to let them capture him. Napoleon’s life depended on it.

* * *

Napoleon woke slowly, blinking into the bright light above him. His arms and legs were strapped down and Victoria Vinciguerra tapped his cheek.

“You may have heard of the Dark Angel of Ravensberg, the Butcher of Belsen, and my personal favorite: The Fifth Horseman, Doctor of the Apocalypse.” Victoria whispered against his lips. “What history has failed to relate is that this was not three individuals, but the tireless work of a single artist. And today, you have the privilege of experiencing his work firsthand.”

Napoleon held back his flinch as he caught sight of a grinning Rudolph von Trusch over Victoria’s shoulder. “Hello again, Mr. Solo.”

He gestured for Victoria to step back and fiddled with a switch. Napoleon felt his body light up with pain as current suddenly ran mercilessly through him. “My apologies, there is a short in the wiring. I thought I’d found it.”

Gritting his teeth against what he knew was coming and Victoria’s wan smile, Napoleon tried to remember Illya would come for him. Victoria took the opportunity to keep taunting him. It was always the truly fanatical ones who couldn’t resist a good monologue. With any luck he could keep Rudi talking long enough to keep the chair off. When the current pulsed again though, he lost a bit of his confidence.

“I keep telling the maestro to modernize, but alas,” She paused as Rudi followed a wire down off his table towards the chair. “He’s a hopeless sentimentalist.”

Rudi flipped the switch once more and Napoleon barely restrained a scream. “We have contact!”

Victoria grinned at the old man, delighted. She turned back on Napoleon with that same grin. 

“So sorry I can’t stay to finish you off myself. Rudi is never in a rush, but sadly, I am. I’ll send your regards to little Gaby.”

She gracefully stepped over the twist of wires and cables to leave Napoleon with Rudi. Napoleon tried to prepare himself. Torture was never something he handled well, especially not now. With the beatings in Leavenworth still so recent, the knowledge he was once again at the mercy of a psychopath did nothing to alleviate his fear.

He chose to focus on one thing Victoria didn’t say as Rudi began talking. They didn’t have Illya. Gaby went with them, a seeming willing ally now she was sure they had her father. But Illya hadn’t been captured or killed. After their display the other night, Victoria wouldn’t resist the urge to taunt him.

Illya was coming for him.

His body pulsed with current and he shook violently.

Illya would save him.

* * *

Illya drove wildly through the Roman streets, desperate to find Napoleon. His tracking device went dead fifteen minutes ago. The only hope Illya had was its stationary position for the hour before. Very few things could destroy his bugs. Electricity, fire, smashing them, none of these options boded well for Napoleon, but they all took time. Hopefully time enough for Illya to get to him.

He honked viciously at a scooter in front of him and nearly ran it off the road. Unbidden the memory of Napoleon pulling him out of the water, desperate to save him, popped into his head and he felt his hands tremble. Fear would do him no good now.

He had to get to Napoleon.

* * *

Napoleon listened to Rudi drone on about his aptitude in torture, how misunderstood he was by the world. Every pause signaled a new level of pain. He tried to keep his jaw loose whenever the pain started. He’d heard the stories of cracked teeth from the inmates on death row in Leavenworth.

The more Rudi talked the longer he had to relax a different muscle group as they twitched violently.

The chair came to life again and he breathed through the pain.

Where was Illya?

* * *

Illya methodically worked his way deeper into the facility.

Only those he could not waste a bullet on escaped his rage.

One young man in a guard’s uniform finally turned on his partner as Illya rounded a corner. The boy put a bullet in his comrade’s back and dropped his gun. Illya kept his pistol trained on the boy.

“Please,” he begged. “Follow me, I know where he is.”

Illya heard a distant scream and felt true terror sink into his belly. “Show me.”

The boy turned and ran, leading Illya through the maze of corridors.

* * *

Napoleon gasped as the current dialed down to a low thrum. Rudi was far past turning it off completely now, letting it stay on left him unable to relax, to prepare for the next round.

“There are two types of torture, Mr. Solo.” Napoleon shut his eyes against the pleased tone. “One is for the extraction of information.”

Current jolted Napoleon again and he fixed hateful eyes on Rudi.

“And the other is for its own sake.” Rudi continued, completely unconcerned by Napoleon’s rage. “I must admit this does get frustrating. But fortunately,” He perused his tools. “I’m in an old-fashioned mood. I think we’ll start with the pliers.”

* * *

Illya paused in front of the glass to let reality set in. The boy was long gone, he pointed Illya towards what he called “The Laboratory” and ran the second Illya gave him permission. Seeing Napoleon strapped to a chair, trembling and covered in small electrical burns, Illya understood why the boy was so quick to turn on his employers.

Napoleon breathed heavily, sneering at Rudi. He was alive. Broken worse than Illya had ever seen him, but alive.

* * *

Movement caught Napoleon’s eye as Rudi picked up the pliers.

“I am so glad to see you, Peril.”

Rudi flinched, finally realizing there was six-foot-five-inches of psychotic Russian standing behind him. Napoleon almost laughed. “You okay Cowboy?”

“Not at all. I’m never removing your trackers again.”

Illya hummed and slammed Rudi’s head against the table. Sure the old man was unconscious, Illya quickly followed the power cables with his eyes, searching for booby traps. He hastily pulled Napoleon free of the chair and caught him when his legs tried to fail. Napoleon latched onto him and it was testament to his trust in Illya that he let a broken sob escape him.

They stood silently until Rudi began to stir, wrapped up in each other. Illya’s hands twitched and shook in fear and rage. Napoleon’s body did the same, aftershocks from the repeated doses of high voltage. But they were alive, they were together.

Illya let Rudi come fully awake as he strapped him to the chair. Napoleon stood over the little man, back muscles still twitching from the electricity.

“You don’t have to do things to me to make me talk. I’ll tell you everything I know. You won’t be able to stop me.”

“Where is Gaby?” Napoleon asked. The chair suddenly shot to life and he took a startled step back to eye Illya.

At his confusion Napoleon gestured to the byzantine wiring, “They have a glitch.”

“Then I’ll fix it,” Illya snarled and gently pushed Napoleon out of the way.

Rudi’s eyes went wide and he started struggling. “Wait, please wait.”

Napoleon let him beg. The maestro knew exactly what his chair would do and Napoleon was never what you’d call forgiving. “Do you still have Teller?”

“Yes, we have them both. They’re on the island, Vinciguerra’s private retreat.”

“And they’ve enriched the uranium?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Rudi babbled as Illya twisted exposed wires into place. “The Reichsmarschall will take delivery by submarine at eight tomorrow morning. Please, I’ll testify against anyone, I don’t even have to know them.”

Illya stood up sharply at that and glanced between Napoleon and Rudi. Napoleon looked at Rudi and grinned. “Will you give us a minute?”

“I’ll be right here.”

He let Illya manhandle him out of the double doors at the far end of the room where they could keep an eye on a struggling Rudi. Illya sighed and reached up to smooth his curls. He knew how much Napoleon hated his hair out of place. “What should we do?”

“We have to get to that island.” Illya deflected.

“What should we do with him?”

Illya glanced back into the room and then to his partner. He reached out to take Napoleon’s hand and felt his heart break at the trembling he still felt there. “It’s up to you.”

“I know exactly what will happen here,” Napoleon sighed and dropped his head to Illya’s chest. “Either we kill him, or he’ll strike a deal and get out of this. Or worse they’ll offer him a job. A man with his skillset is never lacking for employment.”

“So what should we do?” Illya spoke into Napoleon’s hair.

“Just give me a minute.”

Flames suddenly erupted in the room and Rudi screamed. They watched the man burn for a long moment before Illya sighed. “He fixed the glitch.”

Napoleon didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. “I left my jacket in there.”


	16. Damsel in Distress

Gaby stepped off the helicopter and barely resisted the urge to slap her father. All the years spent thinking he was dead, in fear for her life no matter the safety her adoptive father provided, she hated him. When this was over, she knew U.N.C.L.E. would take him in and use his talents for the _greater good._ But in this moment, despite the child in her heart rejoicing, she wanted him to die.

* * *

“Okay, thank you.” Illya hung up the satellite phone in the van and carefully watched Napoleon’s hands as they white-knuckled the steering wheel. Behind them the Vinciguerra labs burned, heavy black smoke billowed in a massive column over the Italian countryside. 

With every mile between them and Rudi’s playground, Napoleon managed to relax just a bit more. Once they made the decision to help the fire along, Illya cobbled together as many makeshift explosives as he could while Napoleon leaned heavily against a wall. He knew the urge to collapse was strong. Electricity was one of the more difficult techniques the KGB used against its agents to ensure their loyalty. Illya remembered how his muscles spasmed for hours after his training. 

Napoleon would feel this for days. 

“They’ll have a chopper waiting for us at the airport.” He reached out and ran a gentle hand over Napoleon’s shoulder. “Waverly and Lyttelton are assembling a strike team.” 

Illya counted the brief glance and brisk nod a win and settled in, tinkering with the tracking device still transmitting Gaby’s location as she and her ring moved about Vinciguerra Island. With any luck, Napoleon’s mad plan would work after all.

* * *

“I have often dreamed of this day,” Udo Teller whispered in German. “Gaby, I have made a terrible mistake.” 

She stood, the anger overriding her focus. Napoleon would be disappointed in her. She caught sight of Alexander waiting and let the anger send her hand flying. Her father’s head snapped to the side with the force of her slap and she felt vindicated when Alexander disappeared, and her father turned abruptly silent. 

Napoleon was supposed to be here with her. They underestimated the Vinciguerras. Gaby’s brief glimpse of Napoleon’s unconscious form as Alexander delivered Rudi to the labs frightened her, as did Victoria’s obvious glee. With any luck Illya would try to save Napoleon first and their plan could still succeed.

* * *

“Mr. Solo, we meet again.” 

“Waverly.” Napoleon managed to grit out. Illya passed him yet another bottle of water. He’d used a good portion of his luck as he had only minor burns around his wrists and ankles. Elizabeth was already stalking towards him with a medical kit and a rather attractive medic. 

“Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly caught sight of his second-in-command and gestured for the waiting helicopter. “Gentlemen, follow me.” 

Elizabeth and the medic took turns wrapping Napoleon’s burns and checking his heart rate as Illya watched carefully. Somehow the man had acquired more water flasks and Napoleon accepted every one, draining them completely. He could see the desperation in Illya’s eyes. 

Distracted, he jolted as Elizabeth shoved a pair of headphones over his ears and gestured to Illya and Waverly. “You’re connected, sir.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Lyttelton. Gentlemen, the Nazis are due to take delivery of the weapon tomorrow morning as you found out. This leaves us fourteen hours to seize the island, the warhead, and hope Ms. Teller hasn’t beaten us to both by the time we get there.” 

Napoleon exhaled heavily at that. His plan, terrible as he knew it was, should have had him with Gaby. He could only hope the Vinciguerras were not inclined to show her the same treatment as himself. Illya’s hands twitched and he drew his gaze up to find the Russian glaring at him. He managed a weak smile which did nothing to alleviate the tension in Illya’s jaw and resisted the urge to sigh. He’d be making up for this plan for years at this rate.

* * *

_“Mio Amore,”_ Alexander drew his wife off the boat. She was glorious in the sunlight, a Valkyrie riding to victory on the battlefield. 

“Very well done, my darling.” 

He grinned and settled in to follow her. “They will send an army to stop us.” 

“Well,” he caught the edge of her smirk as she made for the steps. “Then we must give them a proper welcome.”

* * *

“You must appear to cooperate,” Gaby whispered, mindful of the guards. “It’s the only way to disable the bomb.” 

“There are guards and cameras everywhere.” 

“I’ll help you.” 

Udo reached for her hand and started to speak again when Victoria and Alexander appeared. Gaby wrapped an arm through her father’s and painted a tense smile on her face. “My father has been unwell. He’s able to work now.” 

Victoria hummed and grinned back at her husband. “A daughter’s touch.” 

Beside her, Udo tensed. Gaby did not. She grew up amongst monsters, men and women using ideology as an excuse to enact their hate upon the world. People like Victoria scared her, she was no fool, but she survived this long on her own. Now she had help, U.N.C.L.E. would come for her. Napoleon and Illya would come for her.

* * *

“Oh, terrific, we’re early,” Elizabeth’s cheerful voice cut in. “I do hate helicopters, much too airy.” 

“What,” Illya frowned at the sight out the window, “Is that?” 

“That, Mr. Kuryakin, is an aircraft carrier.” 

Illya turned incredulous eyes on Napoleon who could only manage a shrug around the flask he was drinking from. The British flag flew proudly as the helicopter touched down on the deck. Illya had been on Russian cruisers and submarines before, but he’d never been on a carrier. Napoleon, unflappable as always, unbuckled himself and led the way off the helicopter into the sea air. 

Waverly was already shaking hands with the carrier’s captain and waving for them to follow. Napoleon fell into step and Illya made to follow only to find himself slowed by Elizabeth’s hand on his arm.

“How is he?” She said against the wind. 

“He will be fine.” 

She hummed and let him lead them towards the open hatch door. “He said Waverly had one chance. What do you think he’ll do when this is over?” Illya ducked his head, uncomfortably reminded ships were never designed for someone of his height, and held out a hand for Elizabeth. She shrugged him off, stepping through on her own. “Well, Kuryakin?” 

“I,” He muttered. “I do not know.” 

“I guessed as much. Something tells me his answer will be entirely dependent on how much damage the two of you take in this siege.” 

“You do not care about Gaby?” Illya said to her back, shocked by her blasé tone.

Elizabeth shot him an amused look. “I care a great deal for Gaby, I recruited her after all. We are quite close. However, unlike my dear husband, I’m much more practical. These are monsters, Kuryakin. Worse than any creature you dreamed lived under your bed as a child. They will not hesitate to use Gaby as leverage against us. This means she is in great danger and you know it.”

* * *

Udo quietly introduced Gaby to his assistant under Victoria’s watchful eyes. She set straight to work cataloguing the inner workings of the bomb while the man happily bragged about the sophistication of the device. Her father casually worked around them, asking for various tools and pieces. 

“What is that?” She gestured to the piece in her father’s hand. 

“It’s a coupler,” his assistant jumped in to explain. “It sends a signal which enables another missile to lock onto this one for double the impact.” 

Gaby shot her father a look and knocked a set of tools off the table. “I’m sorry,” She babbled, scrambling to pick up the tools. The guards twitched towards their guns and she looked up to find Victoria standing over her father. 

“We’re nearly done,” Udo aimed for pleasant. Instead he sounded terrified. 

“Those are the words we’ve been waiting to hear.” Victoria grinned. She raised a gun to Gaby’s face and kept smiling. “Now, let us dispense with the charade. Dr. Teller, if you would kindly return the correct piece to the warhead, I will refrain from shooting your daughter here and now.” Udo removed the fabricated coupling lens from the warhead and slid the correct one in its place. Gaby clenched her jaw in frustration but said nothing. “Excellent. Put her in a cell.” 

The guards grabbed Gaby roughly and frog marched her towards the door. Victoria turned the gun on her father and smiled. “If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, shoot her.”

* * *

“Gentlemen,” Elizabeth stood over a printout of Vinciguerra island. “The plan is and do please stop me if I get this wrong, Jockelson, for a stealth attack on the island. We’ll go right in the front door at the harbor. Jockelson and his men will keep the Vinciguerras entertained while you two slip in and recover the Tellers and the warhead.” 

Napoleon eyed Jockelson, he stood tall and proud next to Waverly as Elizabeth continued on about various points of egress from the fortress. He seemed to have no issues escorting two spies into a heavily fortified island full of Nazis. 

Illya twitched next to him as a junior officer passed them bundles of black tactical gear. They would go in at 0200 hours. Outside the sun was just setting, plenty of time for him to finish purging his mind of Rudi’s attentions. Elizabeth finished her briefing and Napoleon managed to give all the right answers, trusting Illya to fill him in on anything truly important. It still astonished him how quickly he fell into the blank efficiency of the war. 

They were led to a small two-man bunk and brought two trays of steaming hot food which he ate mechanically. The second he finished, Illya crowded into his space and stripped him of his shirt, shoes, and trousers. 

“You are too quiet, Cowboy.” He fussed, manhandling Napoleon onto one of the beds. “Talk to me.” 

“I don’t think I’m up for polite conversation at the moment.” He admitted. 

Illya crawled into the bunk with him and held himself over Napoleon, staring down into his eyes. “What do you need?” 

Napoleon held Illya’s gaze. He wondered, not for the first time in the last few months, what he’d done to deserve this man. Neither of them were what anyone would call good or honorable, but here they were, fighting the good fight side by side. He blinked as Illya took his silence as permission to settle in and sit astride his lap. His hands rose and stroked through the hair on Illya’s bare chest, proof of how distracted he was as normally Illya removing any article of clothing was enough to draw his eyes. 

“I don’t know.” 

Bending over him, Illya pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. “Then what is it you want?” 

Gasping as Illya’s erection ground into his hip, Napoleon let his legs fall open. After the stress of the day he wasn’t sure he could respond in kind, but laying here, completely at Illya’s mercy was enough to make him want to try. 

“You,” he gasped. “I want you.” 

Illya’s lips twitched. He adjusted his position until Napoleon had no choice but to wrap his legs around Illya’s hips. “You have me.”

* * *

“It is done,” Udo announced.

“Oh well done,” Victoria checked her watch. “And with three minutes to spare. Now, your computer disk with your research, where is it?” He retrieved the disk and snapped it into her hand. “And the backup.” 

“Victoria,” Alexander called. “It is time for you to leave.” 

“What about Gaby,” Udo pleaded. 

“She’ll be joining you shortly.” 

He closed his eyes as she raised the gun and prayed for his daughter.

* * *

The boats coasted into the harbor silently. Napoleon and Illya both checked their weapons once more as the Royal Marines around them did the same. They disembarked and took up positions to snipe the guards on the quay. As each man fell, the Marines moved further up towards the stairs leading into the fortress. 

They managed to reach the heavily fortified door without being spotted and took cover as the Marines wired it to explode. Napoleon controlled his flinch as the charge detonated and the gunfire erupted. Illya tapped him on the shoulder and they followed the Marines inside.

Breaking from the group they followed Illya's radiation meter towards the warhead, working seamlessly together. The familiarity of clearing rooms and taking down anyone in their way, settled into Napoleon’s bones and he forgot anything except the need to find his target. They cleared the halls and stormed into the lab. Illya went straight to a cannibalized warhead, speaking rapidly into his walkie-talkie. 

“Looks like we found Dr. Teller,” Napoleon lamented as he stumbled into the man’s body. He hoped Gaby hadn’t seen her father shot in front of her. Illya pulled his hand away from his ear and turned at Napoleon’s words. “The bomb was here I take it. Surely, they wouldn’t leave it behind.”

“Alexander has Gaby and the warhead.” Illya confirmed, eyeing the body on the floor. “They’re at the entrance.” 

Napoleon turned as a group of Marines entered the lab. “Go, I’ll catch up.” 

Illya spared him one glance as he took off towards the entrance. “Right, let’s finish clearing this level.” 

As the larger group wreaked havoc on the levels above, Napoleon’s team moved towards the fortress’ old dungeons where Elizabeth thought there was a tunnel connecting to the main entrance. If he timed it right, he could catch Alexander before he left with Gaby. 

Rounding a corner, he ducked and drew his weapon up to shoot into a group of guards. The Marines behind him opened fire as well and he drew upright to continue down the hallway. A flash caught his eye and he stopped. The Marines ran past him as he bent to check the wrist of the man beneath him. 

“Of course,” He whispered, pocketing Illya’s watch. He kicked the man to make sure he was truly dead. “If you broke this I’ll come back and make it impossible for your family to identify you.” 

Napoleon hoisted his gun and ran down the hall as gunfire erupted ahead of him once more.

* * *

Illya paused as he hurried down the hall, catching sight of Gaby’s bag. He ran harder, dropping guards with single shots until he stumbled into the control room. He saw Alexander pulling away with Gaby chained to the front seat and the warhead strapped to the back of his jeep. A second later Napoleon skidded into view before pulling a tarpaulin off a buggy and tearing off after them. 

“Stupid Americans and their toys,” He muttered to himself as he tore after them.   
His motorcycle roared down the causeway and he kept control enough to pull up and sight the two cars through his rifle. 

Napoleon was gaining on Alexander in the buggy, able to go off road where the jeep could not with the warhead strapped to the back. Illya did his best to keep up, pushing the motorcycle over the gravel roads and through the trees when he could manage the terrain. 

The two cars still kept well ahead of him and he had to stop in awe as he saw Napoleon push the buggy across the lake below him at high speed. Only he would be so foolish and manage to succeed. He threw the bike into gear and cut directly through the trees after them, gaining steadily as they twisted and turned on the road. 

He saw the moment he would intercept them and threw his weight forward to put the bike ahead of the jeep. Alexander tried to force him off the road and he dodged as best he could on the uneven, wet ground. He pulled his pistol and shot out a tire, barely reacting to Gaby screaming his name as the bike went off the edge. 

The engines roared above him and then Gaby screamed again. He pried his eyes open to see the jeep flipping over the side, throwing Gaby around, and forced himself upright. Napoleon’s buggy rolled to a stop and he pushed at the motorcycle on his chest when he saw Alexander move. 

Distracted, Napoleon didn’t see Alexander coming for him as he pulled Gaby to safety. Illya heaved and lifted the mangled remains of the bike over his head. 

The twisted metal landed heavily on Alexander as he fought with Napoleon and Gaby. It gave Illya the opening he needed and he drove his blade deep into Alexander’s chest. He heard Napoleon pull himself along the ground and dropped the body into the mud, where it belonged. 

“Cowboy,” He called over his shoulder. He wiped his blade off and turned. 

“I’ll be alright, Peril. Check on Gaby.” 

Illya laid eyes on him. Napoleon stared him down, and though the lie was obvious, he turned to Gaby. She shivered as he pulled her close and stroked her hair from her eyes. “You’ll be alright, chop shop girl.” 

“So,” She stuttered. “Solo?” 

“He’ll be alright too.” 

She managed to nod her head and passed out in his arms.


	17. Freedom

“Slight problem.” Elizabeth said as she crouched over the mangled remains of the jeep. “Wrong warhead.” 

Napoleon looked to Illya who had just handed an unconscious Gaby over to the medics. The giant Russian was already on his way over, ignoring Elizabeth, in favor of checking the goose egg appearing on his head and looking to fuss over the proper application of his ice pack. 

“Peril,” Napoleon warned. The other man knew exactly how fragile his control was today and Illya drew up short at the tone. 

“What do you mean ‘wrong warhead,’” he said coldly to Elizabeth. His eyes never left Napoleon. 

“This is a regular bomb. It will go boom and destroy quite a lot of things, but it is not nuclear.” 

“There was a second warhead in the lab.” Gaby called from her perch under the care of a medic.

* * *

The helicopter ride back to the carrier jostled them all together as Napoleon and Illya sandwiched Gaby between them. Her concussion made the journey more difficult as she was thoroughly unused to maintaining herself under these levels of pressure and intensity. Napoleon had to be proud of her though, she was still awake and telling Elizabeth everything she remembered from the lab. 

They landed roughly in the rain and Waverly proved his mettle as a former navy man by rushing straight out into it to question the captain. The officers and medics ushered them inside and up to the bridge as Elizabeth and Waverly quizzed the captain along the way. 

“Nothing has left this island since last night, sir.” The captain repeated. “Nothing.” 

Illya perked up, a cup of tea helping to maintain him as the adrenaline of the morning wore off. “What about fishing boats leaving the mainland?” 

Waverly turned on the captain, “Get me the harbormaster.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Thirty minutes later the grizzled old Italian man stood on the bridge detailing when the boats left for the morning. Napoleon was sagged against the table which mapped the seas around the island and downing his fourth cup of hot, sugary tea. Illya suspected he was in shock and hiding a concussion of his own. 

“They are spread out over a sixty-kilometer radius by now,” Napoleon leapt forward and snatched the list of ships from the man and started scanning it. 

As the captain, harbormaster, Waverly, and Elizabeth bickered around them, Illya watched Napoleon. He had an eye for details like no other agent he’d ever met. If anyone could figure out where Victoria was, it would be Napoleon. He wasn’t disappointed. 

“Diadema,” Napoleon interrupted. “Sergio Vinciguerra’s old fishing boat.” 

“We can get a bearing from the radio?” Elizabeth questioned the captain. 

“Yes, if they stay talking long enough.” 

“I have an idea which may make things simpler.” Gaby announced. 

The others turned to her and she launched into her plan to blow up Victoria and the submarine meeting her. Illya kept his eyes on Napoleon and edged closer when he realized the other man was about to collapse. Waverly caught the movement as well and subtly pushed Napoleon into Illya’s side as he stepped up to the table. It was testament to Napoleon’s exhaustion that he accepted the help readily. 

Elizabeth and Gaby disappeared to the brig to question a few Nazi scientists and Illya took the opportunity to force Napoleon into a chair. “Peril, you’re being quite the mother hen for someone who had a motorcycle land on their chest today.” 

“And you are being quite stubborn considering what Rudi did to you. Now sit and drink your tea.” 

Waverly joined them, hashing out a plan with the captain should Gaby’s not work. The harbormaster stood at the helm, radioing out to the Diadema. None of this would work if Victoria didn’t answer. 

Napoleon managed two cups of tea before the Diadema’s captain answered. Gaby slipped in a moment later with a wide grin on her face and bloody knuckles. Illya almost pitied the scientist who crossed her. Almost. 

“Diadema, I have a message for Victoria Vinciguerra.” The harbormaster kept talking. Napoleon frowned as the Diadema denied she was on board. His frown set further as they argued back and forth. 

Waverly looked to his watch and snatched the radio away then tossed it to Napoleon. “Make this good.” 

Setting his jaw, Napoleon glanced at Illya and took a breath. “Diadema this is Napoleon Solo. Hello, Victoria, I suspect you’re already listening, so I’ll give you this message directly. Earlier today, I killed your husband.” 

Silence crept over the bridge. The captain huffed, “We’re wasting our time.” 

“Another minute please,” Waverly pushed. 

Illya stepped towards Napoleon. “Make it hurt, Cowboy.” 

Napoleon nodded and pressed down on the radio button once more. “I’d like to report that he died honorably, courageously, and selflessly. But he didn’t. Instead it was a rather pitiful affair involving tears, begging, and offers to trade anything or,” He paused and Illya gave him a nod of encouragement. “Indeed, _anyone,_ so that I would spare his life.” 

Elizabeth stepped onto the bridge with a nod to Waverly and the captain. Around Napoleon the bridge shot to life as they readied to launch the warhead. Gaby sagged against Illya as they waited for Victoria to take the bait. 

“Napoleon,” Her voice finally croaked across the receiver. “I appreciate your message. Now I hope you’ll appreciate mine.” 

Illya closed his eyes in relief. He listened for the sounds of the warhead readying to launch from the deck below and held Gaby close. Victoria threatened everything and everyone he loved in the world and he couldn’t help a smile. She was buying them the time they needed. Napoleon egged her on, kept her talking, and he loved him for it. 

“I see one flaw in your plan.” 

“Entertain me.” Victoria snapped. 

“While you’ve been threatening me, we’ve locked on to your signal and have a pretty good idea of your general location.” 

“Won’t make any difference, I’ll be gone in five minutes.” 

“Oh, but your dear husband? He left us a second warhead, which we locked onto the location of the warhead. You should see it any second now. So, if you want to make good on your threats, I suggest abandoning ship. How’s that for entertainment?” 

In the distance an explosion drew Illya’s eye. Gaby pulled away from him to hug Napoleon and Waverly clapped him on the shoulder. “Very good. Well done, Mr. Solo.” 

Illya felt his lips twitch in a smile. He turned and found Elizabeth watching the interaction between Waverly and Napoleon and felt his gut clench. One chance, Napoleon said, one and he’d decide to stay or go. Illya had no choice. He would stay with U.N.C.L.E. for as long as Oleg demanded. 

He let his eyes drift back to Napoleon and held back a sigh. He wouldn’t hold Napoleon’s leash.

* * *

Illya bent over Napoleon’s bar and poured himself a whisky. 

“All packed?” Napoleon called from the bedroom. He didn’t answer, knocking back the liquor instead and pouring himself another. 

They’d left Gaby in Elizabeth’s capable hands at breakfast for a full debrief and a therapeutic round of shooting at whatever range U.N.C.L.E. had access to in Rome. Illya hadn’t followed Napoleon up though, choosing to think on his future over several strong espressos. Then he’d gone to his and Gaby’s room and packed his meager suitcase. Just as he made to join Napoleon, the phone rang. 

He downed his glass and decided against pouring another. 

“You feeling okay, Peril?” 

“You have the disk.” He muttered. Napoleon was already crossing the room, the little blue disk in his hand. He dropped it on the coffee table. “Oleg ordered me to kill you for it. He says I can never return to Russia if I do not deliver it.” 

Napoleon stopped a few steps away and glanced to his hands. Illya felt them shaking again and though of the destruction in the room below. He curled his fists and closed his eyes, willing himself to breathe. 

“Illya,” Napoleon started. He stepped into Illya’s space and pulled him towards the sofa. “Illya, open your eyes.” 

He couldn’t. Napoleon sighed and Illya let him pull his hands over into his lap. He breathed as slowly as he could against the rage under his skin. 

Something cold touched his wrist and he flinched. Opening his eyes slowly he inhaled sharply to see his father’s watch wrapped around his wrist. He pulled his hands back and inspected it carefully. Napoleon watched him carefully, a hand on his thigh. 

“Where?”

“I have my ways.” 

“You stole it back.” Illya retorted. 

“I did.” 

“When?” 

“On the island. I put a bullet in the man who took it from you.” 

Illya almost laughed. He launched himself at Napoleon, pulling him into a desperate kiss. Not since before his capture, since before Leavenworth had he been able to hold Napoleon this way. “What are we going to do now, Cowboy?”

Napoleon rolled on top of him and caged him in with his arms. “You want to know if I plan to tell Waverly yes.” Illya didn’t answer him so Napoleon plowed forward. “I took the disk for a reason, you know. I wanted to dangle it in front of Waverly as a test. But you know what happened?” 

“What?” 

“Elizabeth saw me with it. She told me to burn it. Not because she thought Waverly would take it, but because this couldn’t happen again.” 

“So you will let Waverly hold your leash?” 

“No.” Illya was confused. “No one holds my leash anymore, Peril. No one. Waverly was here just before you. He gave me documents, signed in triplicate stating the United States government has considered my time served.” 

Illya dug his fingers into Napoleon’s arms and pushed them upright. “You’re free?” 

“I’m free.” 

He kissed him. Napoleon laughed against his lips, letting Illya pull him in. They necked like teenagers in one of Napoleon’s terrible American movies. Illya felt something settle in his chest and realized he was happy. He was terrified he’d lose everything, but for this moment, he was happy. 

Napoleon finally shoved him away and panted heavily above him. “The phone call, from Oleg. What will you do?” 

“Russia,” He started then stopped. He needed to think. “Russia has not been home for a very long time. I love my country, but I think I would do more outside it.” 

Illya would never forget Napoleon’s smile. In almost six years, he’d never seen Napoleon smile like this. He must have had a similar smile because Napoleon yanked him off the sofa and shoved him towards the bedroom. In seconds he was stripped and shoved onto the bed. Napoleon’s own clothes went flying and he found himself with a lapful of naked American thief. 

They writhed and teased and tormented each other, closer than they’d been in months. Illya let his hands wander across every inch of Napoleon he could reach, finally succumbing to his lover’s insistence and stroking into him as well. Napoleon keened and kissed him until their lips were bloody as Illya slid slick fingers into him. Too soon, Napoleon was shoving his hand away and pinning Illya to the bed once more to sink down on him and set a punishing rhythm. Napoleon faltered, letting Illya surge upwards and flip them, driving them both over the edge with the change. They fell into one another, gasping for breath as reality crept back in around them.

* * *

Gaby stepped out onto the balcony, much refreshed after a morning with Elizabeth. At the railing, Napoleon and Illya stood a respectful distance apart but after the last few weeks she could tell they were practically entwined with how they focused on one another. 

“Ah!” Napoleon crowed over the little fire which represented the destruction of her father’s work. “Gaby! How are you, darling?” 

“Much better, thank you.” Her eyes didn’t leave the flames. She heard Elizabeth and Waverly behind her, but couldn’t look away. 

Illya stepped in next to her and touched the back of her hand. She brought her eyes up in time to hear Waverly welcome both men to U.N.C.L.E and looked to Napoleon. He looked back steadily, a hint of his familiar smirk, dancing above the rim of his glass. 

“Since we’re all such good friends,” Waverly continued behind her. “I’ve decided to keep the team together for a little while.” Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Yes, we have a new bit of business for you in Istanbul.” 

“Turkey?” Illya questioned. 

“Yes, Kuryakin, you’ll need your curly-whirly shoes.” 

Napoleon barely restrained a snort into his glass at the look on his lover’s face. Gaby made no effort and laughed. Both men brightened to see her do so. Less than a month, she thought, and already they’d laid claim to her. They still needed time, but she knew they were her new family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this my dears. 
> 
> As always, I must shout out my beloved ScribeofArda and somedrunkpirate for being my TMFU inspirations. 
> 
> If you haven't read anything of theirs, you're missing out. Go now, shoo. Give them kudos and comments.


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